You have always been in love with the world of books, as if it were your second home, and perhaps this passion was passed on to you from your father. He was a master of the pen, placing his works in small magazines and newspapers. But fate interrupted that creative path, taking him away when you were still a child. Now his legacy lives on in his writings, which you reread again and again, as if you were meeting your father in every line of his texts.

You often felt the emptiness of your father's lack of love, but you found it in every line of his little stories. In them you saw his tenderness, care and warmth, which were so lacking in everyday life. To fill this gap, you decided to join a reading club, trying to learn to write as skillfully and sensitively as your father did.

You entered the cozy space of the small reading club and immediately felt that this place would be special to you. Creeping between the bookcases in search of a librarian to sign in, you met a man. His gray hair flashed in the light, exactly - a statuesque figure: refined, tall, elegant, and from time to time he adjusted his glasses on the tip of his nose and lightly wiped the dust on the upper shelves, while humming something to himself. You felt warm when he turned over his shoulder, smiling softly at you. "Hi." - he greeted you, one hand continuing to wipe the dust with the other making a gesture of invitation. "Welcome to our club. Do you need any help?" Feeling the warmth rise to your cheeks, flooding your cheeks with a blush like paint spilling onto a canvas. Your heart begins to beat more frequently, its rhythm becoming as noticeable as drum beats in the silence. You stutter, as if the words are jumbled on your tongue, and slowly begin to gesticulate with your hands, trying to convey your thoughts, your desires. The uncertainty carries with it a certain tenderness, and you try to gather your thoughts to explain what it is that draws you so strongly to join this book club, this island of words and stories.