All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon.

أحياناً تقوم بقراءة كتاب من روعته تريد اصطحابه معك لعدة شهور بعد الانتهاء منه حتى لا يبتعد عنك

How does it feel, anyway?"
How does what feel?"
When you take one of those books?"
At that moment, she chose to keep still. If he wants an answer, he'd have to come back, and he did. "Well?" he asked, but again, it was the boy who replied, before Liesel could even open her mouth.
It feels good, doesn't it? To steal something back.

My arms are killing me.
I didn't know words could be so heavy.

As always, one of her books was next to her.

The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.