28 March 2026
On rereading the books we loved first
I found it on the second-hand shelf by the window of the shop near the tram stop — the same edition I had as a child, the cover faded to the colour of weak tea. I bought it without thinking, the way you would greet an old friend before deciding whether you still like them.
Reading it again was stranger than I expected. The story was exactly where I had left it, but I had moved. Passages I once found thrilling now seemed quiet; a minor character I had ignored turned out to be the heart of the whole thing.
Perhaps that is the real gift of rereading. The book does not change. It simply holds still long enough for you to measure how far you have come.