Piling up her books on the shelf by her desk, Mary wondered why on earth she’d got so many. These days she seemed incapable of walking past the library without wandering in and getting more books. It was like the library called to her, drawing her in. Sometimes she found herself in the belly of the library, stacks of books towering around her, and she had no memory of going in.
She shrugged and sat at her desk, turned and reached into her bag then sat back up, her pencil-case in hand. The tower trembled and toppled. Brick-like books hit her on the head.
Mary was dead.