The Librarian once told me every man becomes a book when he dies. Not the grand, gilded kind—but the ones shoved into the Miscellaneous section, spines cracked with unspoken words.
I found my father there. His pages smelled of salt and engine grease. Chapter 3: How to Love a Woman Without Swallowing Your Tongue. Chapter 7: Silence as a Love Language (See Also: Regret). I dog-eared the corners where he’d tried to write himself kinder.
Across the aisle, my brother’s volume pulsed with heat. How to Be a Storm Without Destroying the Village—title scribbled out, rewritten, scribbled out again. His margins were crowded with doodles: a boy building a ladder to the moon.
Then I stumbled upon my book. Still blank.
The Librarian coughed. “Most men spend lifetimes editing their first sentence. Be bold.”
So I inked my opening line:
“Once, there was a man who dared to read himself aloud.”










