You believe every book holds a universe. Leave it between your pages, and wherever you stopped, a small piece of the night sky will be waiting for you.

Cold air on the other side of the glass, the smell of coffee filling the room.

Two hands almost touching, the space between them full of dreams. For the readers who find in books what they can’t yet reach.

It was the song of all the promises I failed to keep.

Some stories are meant to be crossed, not finished.