Hortus Arcanus planēta

【novel⑪】

I drew a book from the shelf and let my fingers rest upon its cover, as if it might remember me.

What kind of story had it held?

No matter how I reached for it, the tale dissolved—soft, indistinct—

slipping through memory’s loosened threads.

And yet… if I recall—

it always ended in happiness.

Back then, I read such impossible ideals with eyes lit bright—

as though they were promises, not dreams.

…What am I thinking?

I can’t return to that time.

I shouldn’t.

I moved to place the book back

where it belonged—

but perhaps it was the echo of yesterday’s dream,

or something far more stubborn—

because I could almost hear

my younger self, innocent and unguarded, whispering—

“Read it.”

I let out a long breath.

It felt like more than air—

like a quiet, clinging longing, still chasing the afterimage

of who I used to be.

So, once more, I took the book into my hands and turned toward the counter.

Fine…

I’ll borrow it for a little while. If it disappoints me, I’ll return it soon enough.

With nothing more than that—

such a light, careless thought—

I chose this book.

Unaware, of course, of everything that was about to unfold.