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Description
Gretel let her finger sweep over the books on his shelf. He had a lot of books. He had them coming out of his ears. Books piled up in a corner—perhaps they were naughty and were being punished—books slept in trunks, they stood at attention on shelves, and were open and naked on desks. She looked at those shelved books with the greatest curiosity. How could he read so much?

Moreover, how could he read? Reading had always been something that never was for Gretel. That being said, it wasn't that she couldn't read anything. She could read simple things, like what was printed on the signposts and the store hours in town, but to actually read whole books? No way.

"I never really read. I wasn't taught." She said quietly. "We couldn't afford a tutor to teach me, so I learned basic things at home."

"I had many teachers," Amir started, "but I didn't experience much of the things they taught. I was," he paused, "sheltered? Maybe. I learned about history and literature. I can read three of those in a day's time if I wished to." He meant the books. He could read three of those hulking, printed warriors.

"I learned to cook, plant, and take care of animals."

Amir shuffles over, in between the shelf with those books and Gretel—a close, almost uncomfortable, proximity that she shrugs off. Cinderella she was not going to become. He picks out one and starts to read aloud from it.

She closes her eyes, and remembers storytellers that would come some days to the towns. They'd spread their tales and lies, making them so believable and enticing. Amir's deep and honeyed voice had the same effect.
He stopped. She kept her eyes shut for a moment more. She heard the book close with a fump. Gretel heard him slide it back into rank with the other literary soldiers.

"I gave up many things to be able to do that." He states, but he is not bitter.

Only lonely.

"My sister, I," he speaks on, like a man defeated, "I never spent enough time with her. I had to study. I had to learn about my country, and other countries. I had to be groomed for my duty." There is silence, and Gretel's eyes had opened by now. She remembers all the time she has spent with others. How easy talking to people is for her, and she's taken that for granted.

He continues on. "Do you think that she hates me?"

"I do not." She tells him. His shoulders relax.

"Can you be so sure?"

"Ask her." She says. It's an almost challenge.

Tonight, he'll put pen to paper, and write to his beloved little sister. A few weeks from then, she'll write back saying she has always loved him.

"Teach me to read some time, okay?" If he says okay to it, he better be serious.

"Of course." Amir tells her.

It's late and she should get home.

Even if she'd rather stay and listen to more of his borrowed words that cost him so much.

Description
Gretel let her finger sweep over the books on his shelf. He had a lot of books. He had them coming out of his ears. Books piled up in a corner—perhaps they were naughty and were being punished—books slept in trunks, they stood at attention on shelves, and were open and naked on desks. She looked at those shelved books with the greatest curiosity. How could he read so much?

Moreover, how could he read? Reading had always been something that never was for Gretel. That being said, it wasn't that she couldn't read anything. She could read simple things, like what was printed on the signposts and the store hours in town, but to actually read whole books? No way.

"I never really read. I wasn't taught." She said quietly. "We couldn't afford a tutor to teach me, so I learned basic things at home."

"I had many teachers," Amir started, "but I didn't experience much of the things they taught. I was," he paused, "sheltered? Maybe. I learned about history and literature. I can read three of those in a day's time if I wished to." He meant the books. He could read three of those hulking, printed warriors.

"I learned to cook, plant, and take care of animals."

Amir shuffles over, in between the shelf with those books and Gretel—a close, almost uncomfortable, proximity that she shrugs off. Cinderella she was not going to become. He picks out one and starts to read aloud from it.

She closes her eyes, and remembers storytellers that would come some days to the towns. They'd spread their tales and lies, making them so believable and enticing. Amir's deep and honeyed voice had the same effect.
He stopped. She kept her eyes shut for a moment more. She heard the book close with a fump. Gretel heard him slide it back into rank with the other literary soldiers.

"I gave up many things to be able to do that." He states, but he is not bitter.

Only lonely.

"My sister, I," he speaks on, like a man defeated, "I never spent enough time with her. I had to study. I had to learn about my country, and other countries. I had to be groomed for my duty." There is silence, and Gretel's eyes had opened by now. She remembers all the time she has spent with others. How easy talking to people is for her, and she's taken that for granted.

He continues on. "Do you think that she hates me?"

"I do not." She tells him. His shoulders relax.

"Can you be so sure?"

"Ask her." She says. It's an almost challenge.

Tonight, he'll put pen to paper, and write to his beloved little sister. A few weeks from then, she'll write back saying she has always loved him.

"Teach me to read some time, okay?" If he says okay to it, he better be serious.

"Of course." Amir tells her.

It's late and she should get home.

Even if she'd rather stay and listen to more of his borrowed words that cost him so much.