A book, small enough to fit in someone’s jacket pocket. It was tattered and old, the cover had folds and creases in it and the picture was flaking off. The spine had been cracked several times, to the point that no one but the owner could tell what the book was called. The pages were yellow and the once sharp corners were soft and rounded. To anyone else it would look like a old, well loved book that should probably be recycled. But it wouldn’t be, it would be read and reread by its owner until the ink on every page started to fade and the only thing holding the book together was a couple of pieces of tape. Even then, probably not. To him, the book was home. It was an escape from the crazy chaotic world that never stops moving and being loud. Really, he didn’t even need the book anymore, he had read it so many times the story was etched into his brain forever, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. If you looked closely at the abused cover you could make out the faint letters that made up the title of the well loved story. The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien.