A library, no mater how humble or grand, is a series of sacred gateways. You pass through them and leave your own city behind; you journey through ti… - Anthony Doerr

A shell screams over the house. He thinks: I only want to sit here with her for a thousand hours.

This, perhaps, is how lives are measured, a series of abandonments that we hope beyond reason will eventually be reconciled.

There is pride, too, though — pride that he has done it alone. That his daughter is so curious, so resilient. There is the humility of being a father to someone so powerful, as if he were only a narrow conduit for another, greater thing. That’s how it feels right now, he thinks, kneeling beside her, rinsing her hair: as though his love for his daughter will outstrip the limits of his body. The walls could fall away, even the whole city, and the brightness of that feeling would not wane. The drain moans; the cluttered house crowds in close.