but the windows she had seen on the outside weren’t there on the inside.
In fact, even though she had only taken a few steps forward she could no longer see the walls at all.
Instead, there were bookshelves. Aisles and aisles of shelves, reaching up to the ceiling and branching off
from the broad open corridor Nora was walking down.
She turned down one of the aisles and stopped to gaze in bafflement at the seemingly endless amount of books.
The books were everywhere, on shelves so thin they might as well have been invisible.
The books were all green. Greens of multifarious shades.
Some of these volumes were a murky swamp green, some a bright and light chartreuse,
some a bold emerald and others the verdant shade of summer lawns.
And on the subject of summer lawns: despite the fact that the books looked old, the air in the library felt fresh.
It had a lush, grassy, outdoors kind of smell, not the dusty scent of old tomes.
The shelves really did seem to go on for ever, straight and long towards a far-off horizon,
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