She liked to spend the day at the library, simply browsing among the shelves, smelling the dying pages of so many books. She ran a hand along the shelf as she passed, passively aligning the books as she walked. Every section had its own character: the fiction with its jumble of shapes and sizes, the thin volumes in the art section, the massive tomes in the history section. Over time, she’d even learned to smell the difference. Literature smelled the oldest, whatever the truth may have been. Romance smelled like beaches, vacations and sun. Theology smelled like shadows; psychology like too many lights.