She enters her fathers home office; not just books, but memories
lay scattered across the room. She glances through, each book a glimpse into the past.
Holidays, get-togethers, parties, celebrations, achievements, failures, conflicts.
each stage of her life encapsuled between the pages of books that lay dormant.
She turns to the other side of the room, the largest book lay open, tucked
under a hood of leaves. His favorite anthology series. The one he read to her on almost every special occasion. The one she was looking for.
She would finally learn what her father could never tell her himself, what
made him pack up and disappear into the woods.
She peeks at the book, flipping through pages upon pages of research and observations.
Everything was there, the stories he read to her merely there to fill up the first few chapters, like a cheap facade to hide its contents.
But would it explain who his colleagues were and what exactly his research uncovered?
The research maybe, but his colleagues? She doubted it.
She comes back to focus again as she lay her hand on the book, now isn't the time to sit and decipher the book, before that she has to get back to her own colleagues.
She closes the book and puts it in her pack, turning toward
the door...just as another rut begins to call out.
It's too late now.