The Book

(short short story hidden away in a notebook, translated)

Walking down the street, one of those moments where nothing is going to be done, like picking up food, walking the dog, or just walking, you look next to you and next to the wall is an old hardback book, worn. You could have ignored it, you were going to in fact, but curiosity born from nothing to do stops and moves you. You pick up the book and open it in the middle but you end up at the beginning, just after the preface, and it captivates you, you never read anything so interesting, not that you care much about books, in fact you're not much of a reader, but you feel convinced that, even if you did, this book would be the best thing you'd ever read, by far.
The words pull ever strongly the words following. Seven hours pass in an instant until you finish the book, you walked very far, at a very slow pace, you recognize your surroundings, it was really far, how didn't you realize? You turn the page to the prologue: three empty pages. And in the final page it only says, in large print: "Now leave me somewhere so that another will read me".
You leave it. Someone took it.