He hasn’t seen the place since its grand opening. It’s only been months since the ribbon was cut, but it feels like eons, and there’s a certain guilt that settles in the pit of stomach when he tries to remember the last time he did this ( volunteering, giving back, being selfless ). There’s a garden of excuses begging to be plucked, soothing reassurances of time constraints and obligations beyond his control. ( How easy it would be to blame the absence of charity on his new seat in parliament —— he doesn’t have time for volunteering! He has to adjust! )

Tempting as they are, he doesn’t choose any of them. Better to let the guilt thrive, allow it to become motivation.

And it does, to an extent. From the moment they see the plaque — Genovian Children’s Center, in proud, gold letters — to the moment they’re guided into library, he’s set upon making up for lost time. The children would love it if you read to them, the staff tells them, and he’s more than happy to spend the next twenty-four hours reading, if they’ll have him.

So here they are, stashed away in the library, searching for something to read to the children.

          "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?” He pulls the book from the shelf before raising it for her inspection. It’s probably his best suggestion yet. It’s entertaining, it’s a classic, and more importantly ——

He grins.