The Hole

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After the divorce,

he began navigating a new landscape,

focusing on self-growth,

embracing a frugal life.

One rainy day, he discovered the book

on the discount shelf of a thrift shop,

cover faded yet inviting,

a beacon of hope for self-discovery.

A fictional classic, brimming with promises

of adventure and wisdom.

He added it to his stack,

five for a dollar.

At home, he placed it

on the shelf among twenty lonely books,

promises lapsed, obscured

by the busyness of a new life.

Years later, while packing for a move,

he stumbled upon the book.

“Oh, I should read this next,” he thought.

Flipping through the pages,

he noticed the hole.

A quarter-inch circle marred the back cover,

a tiny cave inviting exploration,

as if holding a dark secret—

an invitation

to explore memories,

alluring and painful,

each edge a reminder

of losses and insights.

The hole had penetrated thirty pages,

and he wondered,

what could have caused

such damage?

Not an insect.

Smooth as stone,

the hole was devoid of life,

like a long-forgotten memory.

The edges of the wound oriented inward,

as if someone

had tried to impale the paperback,

leaving behind a mark with its own story.

Not a pencil or pen,

no ink or graphite in the hole.

Had a nail pierced the ivory pages,

or had a bullet left its violent mark?

He placed the bestseller

into a box, ultimately

relocating it to a closet

in his new residence.

Busy establishing a new life,

gathering dust in a corner,

the book remains unread,

an aging relic of forgotten intentions.

But periodically,

his mind wanders to the hole,

and he wonders:

what caused it?

© 2025 Bruno Talerico 

Stafford challenge day 26/365.

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