Written by Noah Maywar

Art by Hadley-Rae Balmes

Each morning, I open my eyes to a setting moon so I can read to the sunrise. The smell of inked paper greets the morning dew, the smell forcing me to pause. I am reminded of books and their smells throughout my life. 

The best smells are found in the wilds of used book stores.

Each book aged like wine, having collected memories, passing experiences from each hand that had turned the pages to the next.

Coffee-infused paper, a morning reader, with letters highlighted through repeated reads next to blinds, allowing the sun to read along through the slits.

Cookbooks witnessing the warzone of inexperienced cooks etching each meal into its pages until the now veteran graduates and passes the book on.  

Perfumed hands bloom flowers after each turned page.  

The smells leave me smiling as I continue to read.

However, intrusive thoughts inject smells that terrify me.

The cold, heavy smell of drenched paper sinks into my heart as I relive rushing to rend fused pages apart, each tearing and disintegrating within my fingertips. The water had long washed away the book’s previous character. A forgotten book oozing mildew, with the lucky few only suffering blotched words. 

A burning book sparks a historical anger. Book burnings lift ink-filled smoke through the air, whispering warnings while I shed tears from the thickness of its prelude. 

I finish the book, sharing its smell with the next reader.