The Book Thief

“Okay, but listen, this isn’t like... like stealing a candy bar or some cheap necklace, okay?” Grace hissed, her voice low and tight. “This is different. You sure you wanna do this?”

“I’m sure,” I said, even though my stomach was doing flips. “It’s not really stealing. I’m—uh—I’m rescuing it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Rescuing a book. Right. You should write that down, in case they arrest you. Maybe they’ll laugh and let you off.”

“Shut up.” My voice came out louder than I meant, and we both froze, glancing around the dusty little shop. But no one noticed. The old guy behind the counter was lost in some crossword, pencil tapping against his lip, and the one other customer—a woman in a huge coat that made her look like a bear—was buried in the travel section. We were fine. For now.

“Why do you even want it so bad?” Grace asked, leaning closer. Her breath smelled like gum. Always gum with her. “It’s just some ratty old book.”

“It’s not ratty.” I glared at her, then turned back to the shelf, to the leather spine sticking out between two fat, shiny cookbooks. “And it’s not just a book. It’s the book. My mom used to—” I stopped. Saying it out loud felt weird. Too big, too fragile. “It’s important, okay?”

Grace didn’t push. For once. She just shrugged, crossing her arms and scanning the store like we were in some heist movie. “Fine. But you’re the one doing it. Don’t drag me down with you if this goes sideways.”

“It won’t go sideways,” I muttered, but my hands were shaking as I reached out, fingers brushing the book’s spine. It felt solid. Heavy. Like it was anchored to the shelf by more than gravity.

My heart was pounding now. Stupid. I’d done worse things—real crimes, not this... borrowing. But this felt different. The kind of thing that gets you caught.

I glanced back at Grace. She nodded, just barely, and I took the book. Slid it out of its slot. It was lighter than I expected, the leather cover cool against my hands. I flipped it open, just to check. The pages smelled old, like a library or an attic, and the writing was small and sharp, all cramped together like it was trying to hide. Perfect.

“Are you gonna stare at it all day, or are we leaving?” Grace asked, snapping me out of it.

“Leaving.” I shoved the book under my jacket, tucking it tight against my ribs. “Let’s go.”

We headed for the door, casual as anything. No one even looked up. Not until we were outside, the bell jingling behind us, and the cold hit me like a slap.

“We did it,” Grace said, grinning. “You did it. See? Told you it’d be easy.”

“Yeah,” I said, but my voice felt weird. Tight. Like something was stuck in my throat. I pulled the book out, running my fingers over the cover. It was smooth, worn, the title almost rubbed away: Tales for the Wandering Heart.

My mom used to read it to me, back when things were... different. Before the yelling. Before the silence. It was her book, her favorite, and when she left—walked out, no warning, no goodbye—it went with her. Or so I thought.

Until last week, when I saw it sitting in the shop window like it had been waiting for me.

“What now?” Grace asked, peering over my shoulder. “Gonna, like, frame it or something?”

“No.” I held the book tighter. “I’m gonna read it.”

She laughed, like I’d told some joke she didn’t quite get. “Sure. Have fun with that.”

We walked back to her car, and she drove me home, windows down despite the cold. I don’t think she noticed me holding the book the whole way, my thumb tracing the edges of the cover.

That night, in my room, I sat on the floor with the book in my lap. I opened it, flipped through the pages. There was a name written on the inside cover, in my mom’s careful, looping handwriting: Clara Marlowe. Her name. Proof that it was hers—or mine, now.

I started reading, even though the words blurred sometimes, even though I kept hearing her voice in my head, reading them to me the way she used to. It wasn’t the same. It never would be.

Somewhere around the third chapter, I found a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages. It was old, yellowed, the edges soft like it had been handled a hundred times.

I unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was hers, messy this time, rushed.

For my wandering heart—
Keep reading. I’ll always find you.

I stared at it for a long time, my chest tight, my hands shaking. Then I folded it back up, slipped it into the book, and kept reading.