The Book of Ash

Near the end of my searching I came to a door. Entering, I found the story of her life, laid out like a cake on an ebony table, as if waiting there for the lost bride—pages flat and placid, blank as a lake asleep in winter. Hoping for answers, some knowledge of her, perhaps—I’m not sure what— I placed my palm upon the surface. It sank through and disappeared beneath a cloud of snowy powder.