On a foggy day in the upper reaches of a house, a book tipped off the edge of a shelf. When shaky, unsuspecting hands picked up the book, it fell open to a page on which were written three words:
The quivering hands looked to the book’s cover, where a title gleamed in antique gold font. It read:
Trembling fingers flipped through the pages, curious as to the rest of their contents. But no other words, save three, could be found.
It seemed nothing else needed to be said on the subject.
And as the hands folded the book to place it back on the shelf, they had found their ease.