There is a shelf in a library somewhere, where unbeknownst to all who visit, there sits a sad, lonely old book. It has not been picked up – not even been touched – in years. So many years, in fact, that it has lost count.
No longer does it remember the warm feeling of a human hand, or the caress of a careful, gentle reader. Though at one time, it used to look up at a reader with eyes wide, full of wonder, now that is only a distant memory. Its readers used to draw in sharp breaths, their relief fanning over the pages of the book when they reached the part where their favourite character escaped from the clutches of the dangerous villain.
No more. Now it just sits and waits, wondering whether anybody will ever pick it up again. It is covered in a thick layer of dust and empty promises.
There must be a new reader, somewhere. It longs to share its secrets, the plot twists and the surprise ending. The book wants to transport them to another time, when it was loved and read almost every day, cherished by those who enjoyed the mystery between its pages.
So there it stays, as patient as any book can be. There is no rush – the book will never die.