He picked up his pen, ready to transcribe the digital wisdom. But then, his eyes flickered back to the textbook. He opened to the section on . He read a paragraph about the slow, honey-thick days in Oblomovka, where the sun seemed to stand still and no one ever hurried.
The heavy scent of old paper and floor wax filled the school library, a stark contrast to the buzzing neon lights of the hallway. Dima sat at a corner table, his forehead resting against the cool, glossy cover of .
"I don't get him," Dima muttered. "Why spend four hundred pages on a man who won't get off his couch? It’s just... a guy in a dressing gown."
