She caressed the pages of the book, like it was the skin of a long-lost lover. Her delicate fingers running through the lines on the pages, gingerly, as if the words will scramble and get sick with her touch if she’s not careful. A smile surfaced on her face when she was gazing fondly at the pages, reading a line or two, taking in the flavour of the story being told, making herself a part of it.
It was her favourite thing. Reading. It meant the world to her.