She stands in the same charity shop she visits every other Tuesday on her lunch break and browses the books.  Some of the less popular books have remained unsold for so long they are like old friends to her, she can almost recognise them from the warped shape of their spine alone.

  She carefully scans the poorly-alphabetised fictions but nothing sparks her interest.  Leaving the shop through the meagre reference section her eyes move along unfamiliar spines until one stops her exit, freezing her to the spot. 

  The book makes her immeasurably sad.  She stares at it and thinks how awful it is that some poor woman has bought this book and the terrible, unspeakable things that must have happened to her.  She stands, the cold sweat creeping up her back, her legs frozen, petrified for this unknown reader who had nowhere else to turn but this book and she thinks for a moment that she might break down right here and never stop crying.

  But it doesn’t last.  She leans down, her hand shaking but a warmth begins to spread inside of her as she realises that wasn’t what happened.  This is a book bought in sadness but the fact that it sits here, on this shelf makes her smile.  It has made it way here because its work is done.  It worked for the last woman who bought it and it makes her feel uplifted to know that a book can hold such power.

  She picks up the book and runs her thumb across the embossed title ‘Coping with Rape’ then walks to the counter and buys it.