*hugs book and doesn't let go*
This is the kind of story and the kind of writing and the kind of author that totally ruins me for future reads.
“Rust,” she said, “what are you doing out here still?”
“I think I might’ve seen a miracle, Mom,” I replied.
“Oh? And what kind of miracle is that?”
Sometimes a book is exactly what it should be.
Sometimes I want to capture the essence of a book and put in into a glass bottle and carry it with me around the world.
Sometimes I listen to the Silence and I’m not sure and still imagine sounds coming to my ears.
Sometimes all of this happen in one single story.
The mystical perspective of a little boy surrounded by nature. Everything is magical and beautiful. Everything is perfect. As it should be.
When he glances a sad boy through the field, he knows that boy is magical and beautiful.
That boy will never be his, but Rust will always belong to him.
In other circumstances, I’d say that’s bollocks.
But when my heart is bleeding, when there is a lump where my throat should be, when there is a limpid look where tears should be, when my skin can’t contain my emotions anymore, I know it’s true.
This feeling is true.
Startled and off-balance, I quickly spun around.
Ancel was standing a few feet away from me, breathing heavily, looking wild.
“Ancel,” I said softly as he came closer.
“It struck me too, Rust.”
“What did?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
It struck me indeed.