She didn’t want to die. And she didn’t want to live any other life than the one that was hers.
The one that could be a messy struggle, but it was her messy struggle.
A beautiful messy struggle. 00:00:52, 00:00:53. As she writhed and pushed and resisted the weight on top of her,
and as the seconds ticked on, she managed – with a great exertion that burned and stifled her lungs – to get back onto her feet.
She scrabbled around on the ground and found the fountain pen, thickly coated in dust,
then ran through the particles of smoke to reach the eleventh aisle.
And there it was. The only book not burning. Still there, perfectly green.
Flinching at the heat, and with a careful index finger, she hooked the top of the spine and pulled the book from the shelf.
She then did what she always did. She opened the book and tried to find the first page.
But the only difficulty was that there was no first page.
There were no words in the entire book. It was completely blank.
Like the other books, this was the book of her future.
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