// @deathwis ( david. ) said: " everything can't be learned in books. "
From anyone else, the words would be a solemn reprimand; a reminder that Abraham is still inadequate, even when he is trying, even when he pours his whole self into something for the sake of Little Hope. He has always been wrong — deeply, and intrinsically, in a way he knows not how to mend — but age has not spared him the dismissal of his superiors, nor has it brought him the clarity he had hoped. Perhaps he will always be lost, seeking a redemption that isn't to be found. Perhaps his father was right, and he deserves his isolation.
But David has never treated him so.
The warmth his presence fills Abraham with now is the very same that had soothed the aches of a troubled childhood; the same that once stood patiently beside him in the fields, guiding him, the only gentle thing he has ever known. What a blessing it has been to have that light returned to him, even in brevity, even with time’s distance! ( If only he could just convince his wicked heart to be grateful for it, instead of always longing for more. )
"’Tis true that not all knowledge lies in the pages of a book," Abraham finally concedes after a beat of silence. He's always needed just a few moments to gather his thoughts, carefully considering his words so that they won’t be misconstrued; it is kind of David to wait for him, never once wavering in his interest. Not many others will do the same. “There are many ways to learn, and each are valuable in their own right; it matters only that we seek understanding and truth.”
Here, his gaze lowers, tracing the fine grain of the shelf so that he might have a chance to catch his breath. “‘Twas not a book that taught these hands to till the soil,” he murmurs. It’s a gentle admission, sentimental, perhaps too much so for a bond he’d severed with his own hand — yet the words remain in the air regardless, glimmering by the candlelight and casting shadows on the space that now lies between them. It is for the best. Even if he feels like it might kill him.
“The Lord lights our paths in His infinite wisdom; He is all around us, in all things, as you well know.” Here, he hesitates again, and his face burns with uncertainty as he traces gentle fingertips over the spine of his current read. “Is He not, then, also in the hearts of those who write? What of the bookbinder, who weaves each page together with skillful hands so that others may learn?” His speech is teetering on the precipice of shameful vanity, but he’s starting to fear he has no better argument of their worth. After all, it matters not if books make him happy, or if it brings him joy to share them with others; he’d never waste David’s precious time on such a blasphemous presumption of his own importance. So where, then, does that leave him?
“There are many things I have learned on a page that I would be ignorant of in their absence. Perhaps books, and this shop, are merely one more way that God guides us to Him.”