I don’t know how much time passes. I discover that I have a never-ending pot of coffee. Once a day—at least, it feels like once a day—a treat appears on the table, although I don’t need to eat, or even drink, for that matter.
It’s a habit, it’s comforting, and my guess is, the entity knows that.
I pull random volumes from the shelves and tumble into the past—not just of Earth. I could spend several lifetimes lost in these books. It’s like reading on steroids—I feel the sun’s heat and the icy rain, taste spring or gunpowder in the air, feel freshly mown grass beneath my feet.
All without leaving the sofa.
The history I want to find most is that of my mother. She must be in these volumes somewhere, because it appears that everyone is. The task is daunting. There is no index, no coherence
