Markus was facing the book as he read, fingers gliding over the raised bumps. He loved his books, and it was notable that most of his books had the same golden lettering on their spine, all from The Author. What he was reading was one of the few fantasy books he had written, and not the horror, mystery and thrillers that were more common for him.
Markus didn’t intent on stopping to read until he had to. Which mostly meant until either Agnes talked to him, or he needed the bathroom. He knew it’d take at least the whole day until he was done with his book, taking his time to read it a hundredth time, loving it all the same as he always did.
emptynarration 