text: You're sitting at home on a late summer's night, when you hear the rain begin to patter on your roof. Turning on the weather channel you see that there is a Severe Thunderstorm Watch in your county. 'No big deal,' you think to yourself, 'a watch means nothing besides some rain and maybe two lightning strikes.' Bored, you turn off the TV, and head out to walk towards the bookstore around the corner, but turn around because it's raining a bit harder than anticipated and an umbrella might not be a bad idea. You look around you as you make your way down the sidewalk, 'not many people out tonight.' This was your idea of a perfect night, warm, but not too hot, rainy, with the sun having set not too long ago because it is still August. The crickets chirp loudly and remind you of home. A nice deep breath of cool rainy air brings back pleasant memories. You look at the ground while walking, watching the puddles dance as you walk through them and seeing the rain drops bead up on your shoes. Luckily this bookstore is open pretty late, it's already close to 9. Standing under the awning, you close your umbrella, and shake it out so you don't drip all over the store. Reaching for the handle you push on it with some force, old doors like these are much heavier than the flimsy things built today. A small bell jingles as it creaks open, and the friendly store owner turns his head to you, lowering his book, he says "Good evening Sasha," as he gives you a warm smile. "Hello Mr. Clauson," you answer. You've been coming here for years, and though you don't know him too well, you've had several lovely little talks with that man. A quiet older man, who retired from his day job years ago to take over his grandfather's bookstore. Now his own grandchildren stop in to sit with him and drink their coffee together. You've always loved to see that, it reminds you of when you were young. Walking alongside a tall bookcase, the wooden floorboards creak like the door, you step slowly. Mr Clauson has a very wide variety of books to choose from... romance, cookbooks, mysteries, humorous novels and more. Some of your favorites include the horror and mystery novels, poetry books and the classics. Oh, and the two rooms filled top to bottom with antique books, filling the room with the scent of hundred year old ink and yellowed pages. You decide to head to the mystery section first. Looking down a long row of books you pick out one that catches your eye, a royal blue hardcover, with gold letters spelling out its title, "Buried Under Cherry Trees." You flip it over to see what it's about. 'The story of a family who has picked up everything to move halfway across the country for their father's new job opportunity. Surprisingly everyone has taken the move well. A few weeks after settling in, a disturbing story pops up on the news. "Young teen murdered in coffee shop yesterday morning." Everyone is rattled but seems to move on, until another dies. And then another. Determined to find out what is happening in her new town, Susie, the oldest daughter conducts her own investigation since the police have been proven slightly corrupt. Pondering the cases under the cherry tree one afternoon, she slowly starts to grasp what is really happening, and why they moved here in the first place.' You hold the book a little tighter, intrigued by its description, and decide you'll purchase it, but not until you've looked around a little more. Wandering out of the mystery section, you walk towards the heavy maple bookshelves, holding hundreds of antique books. You run your fingers along the spines of one shelf and land on one. A dull red leather bound book, tough and cracking, showing its years quite beautifully. "The Little Irish Girl," it's titled. You flip through it noticing the tiny print and pages so brittle they snap instead of fold. You think that some books age like people, and some people age like books. You slide it back onto the shelf, talking yourself out of it since it looks a little too complex to get into right now, and you already need to add another bookcase to your living room since you've successfully filled two already. Still unsatisfied with only buying one book today, you pay a visit to the 'poetry and classics' section of the store. Immediately you get excited as you see two books that are absolutely calling to you. The first is "The Great Gatsby," by F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of your favorites, beautifully written, showing the dark side of love and money in an otherwise booming decade. You recall the first time you read it and how you fell in love with it after only a chapter or two. The second book was, "A Collection of Poems and Stories from Edgar Allen Poe." Edgar Allen Poe is one of your favorite poets, and authors for that matter. His strange and dark life pulling you into his deep and odd writings, The Raven of course being your personal favorite. You grab both and head to a corner and sit down in the rocking chair so you can get a little reading in before heading home for the night. After getting lost in Gatsby for nearly half an hour, you stand and yawn, gather your umbrella and walk back to the front of the store. "Find everything alright?" Mr. Clauson smiles, he loves when young people like you come in and pick out a few good books. "Of course I did," you say confidently. A soft rumble of thunder rolls over the roofs of neighboring buildings, exciting you. "Hmm, guess they might've been right about the storms tonight, do you smell the rain? Always puts me to sleep on nights like these," Mr. Clauson says. "Oh me too, I love it" "And that'll be $21.48 tonight dear." He slips a red bookmark into the mystery novel and tucks the books into a brown paper bag with your receipt printed off the outdated yet fitting register. Handing him $25.00, he hands you your change and say goodnight to each other as you walk outside, that little bell jingling behind you again. Once you're down the street a ways, you turn back to see him immersed in another book and chuckle. You don't hurry back, the rain is still pretty light and pleasant to walk in. Back home, you lock the door and head back to your room and sit on the big velvety arm chair in the corner by the window with the lacy curtains. You crack the window to listen to the wind and rain some more. The storm is finally picking up, a perfect time to read. So you light a candle and turn on your lamp, creating the perfect amount of warm light to start reading your Edgar Allen Poe book of collected poems. After an hour of reading you get up to make some tea, a relaxing blend to help you sleep. You begin to feel drowsy while waiting for the kettle to whistle. You've picked out a chamomile and hibiscus blend, and after it's steeped, you carefully carry it back to your room and set it in the porcelain coaster next to the lamp on the nightstand. The moon is bright, almost full, you think as you look at the clock in the other wall and realize it's been another hour of reading and it's almost midnight now. The rain continues but you leave the window open some because it's not enough to get anything wet. You grab a blanket off the back of your chair and slip into bed, and drift off to the sound of raindrops and the soft moonlight.