When Grandma Wells brought me home from school that day, and I saw my mother crating books, I begged to keep them, clutching my favorite copy of Anne of Green Gables. Mom relented with one condition: the books would remain in my room. Now she rarely entered my bedroom, where I slept in the middle of a thousand stories. I could trust the words in those books to remain the same, unlike the contents of our apartment.

I left the closet without the denim shirt or the blue stone necklace. The books drew me close, a stronger pull than my clothes, a comfort softer than wool or cotton. I approached the nearest shelf and grabbed that same copy of Anne of Green Gables with its faded mint cover.

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