Over the next few days I became absorbed in the story. It was one of those stories that takes a grip on you from the very first page, when the story seems more real to you than anything else, even your own life. I finished it in just three days, and then I actually re-read it. I had, until then, not re-read anything. Why would I? Most books on Kindle are the thrilling, exciting ones, with a mystery as the main plot, and tons of action. Most modern books were like Netflix shows, only in written form. They did not require much thinking, your eyes simply brushed the pages. When you had read it and now knew the plot, the book lost its grip. To Kill a Mockingbird was different. It was not exciting or thrilling, it was interesting, it was powerful, timeless. Each word fell heavy on my eyes.
So, I was reading this book, one morning, the sunshine fell from a very beautiful direction through the angled windows of the small apartment where I lived. It landed perfectly on the book in my hands, it almost seemed to make it glow. I decided to make a post of it, quickly snapping a photo and choosing the right filter. Hopefully, I thought, people will think it’s cool to read a real book, and they will rate it up. Maybe I would even get some more followers, if I was lucky with the response. Also, it could backfire. It could be simply too weird, too out of balance, too out of routine, and I could lose several followers, which is a serious defeat in these times. It was like a game of Russian roulette. But God, to think it would backfire so completely was out of my wildest imagination.
I posted it, and the response was mediocre. It was not very good nor very bad. Hours passed, and I forgot about it, as new posts filled the news feed. The next morning, I was just putting on my clothes, when there was a knock on my door. I was startled. To be honest, that simple knock made me scared. I had not invited anyone over, and nobody just came over anymore. You called, you chatted, you Facetimed. I was pretty sure many of my friends did not even know where I lived.
I froze, considering to just stand here, still, silent, until whoever it was left. But they did not leave. They kept knocking, insistent. Flesh against metal. The sound was uncommon, out of place.
Eventually I walked to the door, my heart beating hard in my chest, in a way it had never done before.
“Who is it?” I called.
“It’s the police.”