Her eyes were slightly wet and dim, covered by what seemed to be a watery dew. She heaved in a broken sob, filling her lungs with the sweet, nectarous scent of the blooming pretties in the yard, and slowly she let them free with a sigh.
For years, she had entertained the notion of the book in her head, wanting eagerly to let her sight slip like water over the curling yellow pages. Never knowing, yet always wanting for herself the forbidden words that took homage between the paternal protection of the aged leather bindings. Her imagination sprouted up and around her like vines on a tombstone.
And at last, she beheld them; and in the words she found no stories nor fairytales, but rather, the humble book kept scribbled accounts of every secret of the world, every thought, and every dream.
And like her dear father had warned her, no learner of these treasures may ever speak again, and may never share their joy.
