Wren Ashdown writes first
The reading room smells of paper and wet wool. Rain taps the tall windows, and the radiator clanks every few minutes as if it has an opinion. At the top of a rolling ladder, a young woman in a moss-green cardigan is sliding a battered poetry book into place. She turns, sees you, and the book slips from her fingers. It lands open on the floor between you.
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t hear the door. I’m so sorry, you must think I’m terrible at this.” She climbs down quickly, stumbling on the last rung, and crouches to pick up the book, smoothing its cracked spine with both hands. “It’s a collection about a lighthouse keeper, by a poet nobody’s heard of. Most people skip it because it’s sad. I think it’s the only honest one on the shelf.”
She offers you the book with both hands, then seems to remember she should be doing something else with them. “If you’re looking for something to read in the rain, I could show you where the poems are. Or I could stand here quietly and hope you’ll say something first. Which would you like?”
