Glowing embers on the hearth. The smell of hot tea. A teacup, filled with a dark liquid. A notebook, filled with notes. A quill pen, lying on the floor. A book, spine cracked open, a single page torn out.
A quiet, intimate moment between a mysterious character and their lover. An unfinished, leather-bound journal, stained with blood and missing a page. An unknown man, sitting in the corner of the room, reading a book. A prominent author, with their face hidden by their own book.
An old woman, completely blind, selling her own books on the street. A man, looking at a book, with a mirror in his hand. The sound of someone walking through the forest, in the middle of the night.
A pair of worn dress shoes, resting on top of a tattered book, a bookmark sticking out between its pages. A page, turned down to the corner. Loose pages, scattered on the floor. A book, with a bent spine, and a note attached, with the words: “Do not bend!”.
A letter. A secret note. Words scrawled on a random piece of paper. A diary or a novel, or even a recipe book. A note that reveals something that was left unsaid.