CHAPTER SIX

|•| ANDRÉ BAUDELAIRE |•|

The smell of books was one of my favourite things in the world—old ones, specifically—they oozed off the most unrefined and effortlessly appealing smell. A mix of ancient leather, woods and a hint of ink and dust, alongside a speck of vanilla.

In one word. Heaven.

The only thing akin to noise in the library I was, was the constant flipping of the classical novel in my hands. I wasn't reading. I was too absent-minded to do that. I just sat in the chair, drowning in the scent that nulled my senses and was slowly luring me to sleep.

It was my safe haven, but right now, it didn't feel like that. It felt like a distraction and I hated it. I hated the fact that I had to shove the very thing I didn't want to think about at the back of my mind. And despite that thought being so far away, I could still feel it flickering, threatening to resurface.

I have always loved being alone with my thoughts. That solitude, that momentary peace, was something I looked forward to.

B