Thank you so much for the review. :) TBH, it's a real memory, which I struggle the most to write about. Something about writing reality for me is difficult. I am working to improve on that :) Thank you also for the post. It was really great to get to remember my childhood with my granddad. <3

The children's section of the Sarah Hightown Library felt like walking into another world. Sure, there were aisles and aisles of bookshelves just like in the adults' section, but these shelves were more unique, often featuring cut-out tunnels and miniature reading nooks-- the perfect place for a child to hide away and read.

I recall how I used to beg my grandparents to take me. The task often fell upon my grandfather. I would spend an hour or so browsing the selections and loading my arms with as many books as I could carry. Sometimes, he would come in and peruse the adult section, but most of the time, he simply sat in the car.

Something about that library made me feel at peace. At home. It was almost as if I should've been a book, resting on its shelves. Curled up in a built-in nook in the back, I would travel across worlds, solve mysteries, and discover love. I would march out happily, though no one could tell, the books towering above my grin as I carefully walked down the steps to the parking lot.

My grandfather would open the door, help me to put the books in the car, and drive me back to their house. "What did you come out with today?" He would often ask.

With pride, I'd tell him I'd challenged myself to read The Never-ending Story or I would chuckle and tell him I picked up another Wishbone or two. He would pat my shoulder and laugh his scratchy, deep laugh. He would always reply with, "Keep on reading, kid."

And I did. The library was my favorite escape. I spent my summers making the reading program look like a toddler's program. I giggled with delight as the librarians stamped my progress onto the tracking sheet, surprise etched onto their face. "You've really read all these books?"

At the time, I didn't realize they were questioning if was bluffing on the number, I, childishly, thought they were amazed at my reading skills. I would nod happily while they still held the same look of disbelief. My grandfather would clear his throat quietly and say, "She comes home with a new pile every few days. She always goes through them all."

And with that, they pressed the stamp onto the sheet and sent me off with the new books I had chosen. As I aged, I branched out into the adult section, preferring stories with characters that matched me mentally, but I often found myself returning to children's section, even though I'd outgrown or read most of the books.

It wasn't until he died that I finally understood. It wasn't the children's section or the library that had made me feel at home. It had always been my grandfather, giving me the independence and support to do the one thing I loved most in the world.