A Book of Their Own

By Peter Bowden

They had a stack of books between them, some with cracked spines, others soft with age, all carrying the scent of memory. It was late morning, the kind that wandered in slow, golden steps. The windows were open. A breeze moved the curtains just enough to remind them the world was still turning, but not fast—not today.

He read aloud from a dog-eared page she’d long forgotten. Her voice followed with a line from another book, one that had made her cry when she was young and idealistic and still believed every story should end in joy. They took turns like that. Not to impress or teach, but just to share. The words made them laugh sometimes, sometimes quiet. And the silence after a good passage felt holy.

At noon, she tucked her feet beneath his leg. He poured more coffee. They didn’t speak for a while—not out of boredom, but reverence. Two people, grown and scarred, sitting with the stories that had shaped them and the one they were shaping now. A book of their own, written not in ink, but in time.

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