NYAC | 3min Read
Published on May 14, 2026
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Spellbound
I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.
– Emily Dickinson
It was a warm autumn evening in Edinburgh, one that reminded Ruelle of the older days.
She wrapped her scarf tight and left her cabin. A gust of wind whirled in her face, making
her shudder. The book in her hands was as heavy as lead. She clutched it firmly, her fingers
digging into the leather binds. Ruelle bit her lip, her mind running, her pulse racing. She
shook her head, staring at the trail ahead of her in a feeble attempt to clear her mind.
A few minutes later she was surrounded by what felt like a thousand trees, leaves fluttering
and swaying before falling leisurely towards the ground, reminding her of the serene
sentiment of snow. Rue inhaled the sweet, crisp scent of autumn air and admired the reds
and oranges of mid-November around her. She tucked her hair behind her ears, smiling
when a maple leaf pitched itself on her head.
Her thoughts faded out to whispers as she stood in front of a magnificent library, eyes
widening at its glory. A large, woodlike structure with two tall towers on opposite ends, long
strings of pale yellow lights hung loosely around the pillars. Its embrace looked mystic and
melodious. A slight fog clouding the windows blurred the colours of the books indoors.
Rue took a tentative step towards the cottage as the vast sea of leaves crunched under her
boots. She gazed at her reflection in the door, at the piercing green eyes staring back at
her. They resembled the fresh green grass of a meadow. Not unlike the first breath of
spring after a harsh, bitter winter.
She shook her head and creaked open the wooden door.
Ruelle held her breath, the sweet, aromatic smell of sandalwood and old books making her
head spin. A small chandelier hung low from the ceiling and delicate, enthralling lamps lit
the rest of the bookstore, luminous and dreamlike. Intricately carved bookshelves stood in
long rows across the room, alluring, like a spell.
The tainted sound of leaves whistling and wind blowing harshly made way to comfortable
silence as Rue shut the door behind her. Faint traces of ancient dust in the air landed on
her lips. Her breath caught in her throat and she trembled slightly. Was it from the wind?She hesitantly grabbed a book oο¬ one of the shelves, an emerald green hardcover,
fragments lined with gold. A fading page slipped out of the binding. Ruelle blew on the
book, coughing when a layer of dust soared up in the air. She opened it to a random page
and a line of text caught her eye.
ββHow can you not the language of poetry.
ββ
know the arts if you are them itself?β he exclaimed.
βOur souls, you see, speak
Ruelle read the words over and over. Until she felt a dim spark in her heart. Her eyes
gleamed in the moonlight and she gave a slight smile. Rue turned the book to the first page
and began reading. She read until her breathing slowed. Until her heart stopped pacing.
Until she couldnβt remember time and memory and everything except the enchanting
stillness of words and pages and the minutes fading away as quickly as theyβd come by.
Outdoors, dawn swept over the burgh like a warm blanket coaxing a young child to sleep.
The sky sparkling with a million stars, winking down at passers by. And as Ruelle sat on her
chair, knees close to her chest, gazing into the night sky, she realised she had found home
in a place she never expected. She was spellbound by literary captivation.
