He was there, lying on the couch, with his beloved blanket, which he had since he was born, his beloved cup of steaming green tea, with fresh mint leaves inside, and his beloved book.

Although it was summer, the weather wasn't the best, far from it: it rained continuously for a good week, without giving any chance, and the temperature had dropped considerably. He took his eyes off the page of the book, then pointing it at the door-window that looked out on the scene to which attended every night. As envisioned, it was raining at breakneck speed, the next morning would have come down to help neighbors to lift the manhole covers to let the water run down into the sewers.

He looked at the blanket. How many times the mother had tried to throw it away? He had lost count. But nothing would separate him from that blanket blue and white, full of bells - silver before - that now, with each passing year, it scucivano and discolored to wash more and more. It was warm, yes, but it was also strangely fresh.

They had given when he was born - his mother told him, of course - and right from the start that had become his favorite blanket. He remembered when, at nine years old, he used it as a cloak to imitate Super Man, or as a flying carpet for Aladdin, or when he hid into it when outside there were thunders and he protected inside the blanket.

He took a sip of tea, although he did it half an hour ago, it still smoking, making dominated by the intense and delicate fragrance of mint that left its aroma. As he drank, took a leaf floating independent, he bit it a little and the fresh taste invaded his mouth, making him smile for no reason.

Those were the moments that he preferred, those of absolute tranquility, with no concern buzzed into his head. He settled back, leaning then the red and white porcelain cup on the table next to the couch. He put the book propped in his legs and continued reading, imagining himself to be one of the protagonists and deal with dangerous adventures that, in real life, would never have happened.

That book, by dint of reading it, was consumed: some pages had fallen off, and even if he, with all the good will of this universe, had set out to attack them with tape, they continued to come off relentlessly. By now he knew by heart every fact, every sentence, every date and every name of those weird characters and at the same time appealing.

He decided that the next day would have made a trip to the library, he wanted to renew a bit his personal library, since all the books he had read and reread and had memorized