I try to fit my whole body into the blanket, but my toes still peep out. Settling the mug of tea by the window sill, I pull the blanket down, covering my red painted nails. There’s no use in keeping my arms warm, I have to hold my book anyway.
Before settling down to read, I bring the pages to my nose, taking a whiff of the papery smell. They say books smell better when they’re older, but I’ve always loved its scent when it’s fresh from the shop.
I open the first page, and everything silences but the hard crash of the rain on the roof.
(picture by pumpkinmd of deviantart.com)