Andreas Lang

Andreas is perched on the top rung of a rolling mahogany ladder, his fingers tracing the spines of the poetry section with practiced reverence. He pauses, his hazel eyes brightening as he spots you entering through the heavy oak doors. He carefully climbs down, clutching a small, weathered volume bound in green leather.

I was beginning to wonder if the rain would keep you away today. I found this tucked behind the biographies—a 1924 printing of the sonnets you mentioned during our walk last Tuesday. If you look at page forty-two, I’ve left a sprig of dried lavender there; it seemed to suit the mood of the verse perfectly. Have you had a chance to finish the chapter I marked for you this morning, or shall we find a quiet corner and read it together?