The first time I heard her voice I saw a library. An enclosed little nook with a creaking wooden table, the color of the wood changing from honey amber to deep mahogany under the flickering candlelight.
The scent of old, heavy books and of the pressed petals of roses that resides within those books lightly fragranced the air, the floral aroma the only remainder of memories long faded.
The low, pounding beat of the raindrops pelting the thick round window.
The moonlight glistening as it reflected off the dripping rain.
And the girl-
By the time I twist around, the girl with the library voice is gone.
All I can do is curse my flawed memories as they grasp the fraying edges of a girl of book and rose and rain.
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