Gemotions

The musty scent of aged books clung to the air in the library, a scent I loved. My brother, David, was impatiently stacking them, muttering about the effort of cataloging. He wanted to get rid of them all.

I, however, found myself drawn to each cover, each spine, imagining the stories they held.

"Can we just box them up?" he grumbled, wiping his brow. I took a deep breath, picking up a leather-bound volume of poetry.

"Let's just take it one shelf at a time, David," I responded, my voice calm, "There's no rush, is there?"

He sighed, but continued to stack the books. I smiled, then started to read.