The Wanderer Who Reads People

 

Chapter 1: The Open Library

Suddenly, the temperature dropped.
Clouds covered the sky, and the sun was forced to hide behind them.

It started raining mildly, and the entire environment was wrapped in shades of greyish blue and green,
filled with the fragrance of flowers and damp soil.

I was sitting in an open library — the most elegant one in my city.
Not because of the number of books it had,
but because of its ambience.

It wasn’t another concrete structure,
but something in the lap of nature —
half open, half covered.

Just open enough to let nature showcase its presence,
and just sheltered enough to protect its readers.

The desire to befriend someone,
to expect something permanent —
was already gone.

I no longer needed it.

But I still had the desire to meet new people,
to listen to them.

Reading books had changed my perspective.

Books are people narrating their stories in text,
and people are like open books, waiting to be read.

Each experience of theirs becomes a new chapter for me.
Their name is the title.
And how I meet them — and eventually say goodbye —
becomes my beginning and ending lesson.

I was holding a book, trying to read it diligently,
adjusting my glasses.

Whenever I start reading,
everything around me fades into silence.

And suddenly, something caught my attention.

In one of the dim corners,
there was a space filled with light.

A corner — where someone stood,
searching for a book.

The light around them was golden,
soft yet striking —

meeting my eyes,
pulling me away from my thoughts,
breaking my focus.

I don’t know why,
but I kept looking.

It wasn’t the first time someone had caught my attention.
People came and went, like pages turning in a book I never intended to finish.

But this felt… different.

Maybe it was the light.
Or maybe it was the stillness they carried —
as if they weren’t just looking for a book,
but for something within it.

I tried to return to my reading.
My eyes moved across the lines,
but my mind refused to follow.

For the first time in a while,
the words in my hands felt less interesting
than a story standing a few steps away.

I closed the book.

Not completely —
just enough to mark the page,
as if I knew I would come back to it.

Some stories can wait.
Some cannot.

The rain grew softer,
turning into a quiet rhythm against the roof.

And for a moment,
everything felt suspended —
time, thoughts, even the need to understand.

I stood up slowly.

Not with urgency,
not with intention —
just a quiet pull I chose not to resist.

Each step felt lighter,
as if curiosity itself was guiding me.

And as I moved closer,
the golden light softened,
blending into something warmer, more human.

They hadn’t noticed me yet.

Or maybe they had —
and chose not to show it.

I stopped a few steps away.

Not too close,
not too far.

Just enough to exist
in the same chapter.