Opening the old book she found stuffed in the back of her closet, she new it contained magic. Every book does. It’s why we read. We are transported to other places, other times. We inhabit the lives of people like and unlike ourselves. Books expand our world.
But this book. This book she knew was different. Even the dust particles dancing in the air as she gently opened the pages contained magic.
She needed some magic. Desperately. Her life had become so…ordinary. So flat. She knew she sounded spoiled. There were way way worse problems going on in the world. She knew that. She also knew that she couldn’t go on like this. They couldn’t go on like this. This mild but consistent discontent thrumming just beneath the surface of their marriage. Nothing that she could point to and say, “That right there. Change that.”
No, it was more insidious than that. Because it wasn’t so easily identifiable, that made it easy to ignore. To pretend that everything was okay.
She felt it was something deeper. Something she had to dig for which is what lead her to cleaning out this closet. That whole creating space for the new bullshit that she reads about so often. Clearing the clutter from her life.
The book in her hands is old. She doesn’t remember buying it. Or reading it. When she opens the cover, her name appears in the corner. As she is watching it appears. Right before her eyes. Written by an invisible hand.
She glances around her. Why? Who or what does she expect to see? Well, she knows who but she also knows that is impossible. She is alone in the closet. Or so it appears.