I sit here, unseen, forgotten, as he walks past me day after day. Once, I was his constant companion, my words were a refuge in his darkest nights, a guide as he ventured throughout his day. Now, I gather dust, stiffening with neglect, waiting, longing.
He’ll come in through the door and go right by us as he goes to use the restroom, goes about his day, or gets ready for bed. Sometimes, he’ll sit on his bed in front of us and look at each of us or pet his dog, who will move to lay beside him. Occasionally, he will bring home another, move us around to make room, and add it to our family.
But it wasn’t always like this. I remember a night that defined my purpose when he woke abruptly, his breath shallow, his eyes wide with fear. Shadows danced on the walls as the moonlight filtered through the curtains, and his trembling hands fumbled for me on the bedside table. When he found me, he held me as though I were a lifeline, his grip firm, desperate. He flipped through my pages with shaking fingers until he landed on a passage—one that spoke of peace, courage, and a love that casts out fear.
He read my words silently for fear of waking up his wife, his voice breaking at first, then steadying. The room seemed to grow still as he whispered, ‘Be still…’ Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased, his breathing calmed, and his hands stopped trembling. He sat there for a moment, clutching me, before closing me gently and placing me back on the table. Soon, he was lying down, his eyes heavy with sleep, the fear melting away as peace took its place.
Today, he pauses, his eyes lingering on the shelf. My heart leaps. Is it time? Does he remember? I hold my breath as his hand hovers near me, but no—he reaches for another and now I remain on the bottom shelf, collecting dust, hoping he would just pick me up again. He knows of the stories I have. Stories of adventure and love. Stories of war and peace. Stories of hope. I’m not like the others; the words on the pages between my covers have stood the test of time, have for thousands of years, and will for thousands more. But yet, I still sit here; he’s chosen another one, one that is about little women finding their way. But I hold truths that have guided generations, words that could guide him still. I know that one day, he will long to pick me up again and read those words, make me part of his world…one day.
I sit here unseen, forgotten…waiting. Until that day, I wait, my words ready to remind him of who is and who he could become.
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