Ware Old Library

Pale paint peels at the end of the High Street, the tall sash windows are clouded over,

and the slow creep of ivy ventures up the wrought-iron rails. 

It used to breathe.

The rhythmic thump-thump of the librarian’s date stamp would measure out the afternoon, with aisles of cloth-bound spines leaning against one another like old friends out of the drizzle.

Now, it sits as a beautiful hollow shell, holding nothing but the silence of a thousand vanished words.

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