On the desk are two books—side by side, spines slightly worn, pages gently creased from use. One is thick with footnotes and underlined passages; the other, slender and unmarked, waits to be opened.
They rest in silence, bathed in soft morning light that filters through a nearby window. No urgency surrounds them; they simply exist as companions to thought, memory, and imagination.
In a world of constant motion, these two books offer a pause—a reminder that some of the deepest journeys begin not with movement, but with stillness.