She loved the library. It was a place of solace for her. She took in the dusty smell of all the various aged novels; slightly acidic with a musty base and reassuringly warm in her nostrils. The wonder of all those written words amazed her. An assortment of twenty-six letters a million times over and more to create something unique and identifiable that everyone could understand and share.
She ran her hand gently over the books on the numeous shelves, caressing the stiff, soft spines as they grazed her fingertips. Randomly she stopped at one and pulled it out causing a quiet clumph sound as the books on either side joined together, closing the gap. She turned it over in her hands examining the front cover and glancing at the words on the back. There was something substantial about the four-hundred or so pages that the covers contained and the comfortable weight of the object in her hands. Yes, this one would do.
She hurried back out of the stacks and into the lighter, open space of the reception area where she hastily passed across her library card and checked out the book. Now that it was officially hers, temporarily at least, she couldn’t wait to get it home. She jiggled nervously for the entire bus journey home, the book lying neatly on her lap, tempting her. Finally, finally, she was home. She rushed to to the table and placed the book gingerly down beside some flowers.
Yes, it was perfect. Opening the book to page three-hundred and sixty-four she laid out some tissue paper and slipped the pale, yellow flower in between the pages. As she slammed the book shut it made a satisfying clap. She smiled. Yes, it was the perfect book for flower pressing.