Together they sat quietly in the ravaged ruins of the library. (Expand on imagery here.)

Many a great book once found its home on the shelves for whomever might choose to grace this place with their scholarly pursuits. Since the bomb however, people didn't come here for anything. There weren't any supplies to be had and most of the books had been burnt beyond repair or recognition.

(omit)Still, that hadn't stopped those two from sneaking in that night.

A small fire hung near their makeshift camp, nestled amongst the bookshelves between fiction and romance. (Expand)

Half-burnt scraps were piling up beside them as the taller of the two, a brown haired boy, sifted through book after book, searching for any readable pages. Laying, curled around his shape, but not touching him, was a girl of similar age. Her eyes were closed and her hair was chopped short, taking on the ragged look that often hangs with those who survive and care nothing for physical beauty. Yet, she seemed beautiful for a moment as she curled near the boy, soaking in the warmth from the fire and his body. She smiled occasionally as well, although from far off one could never notice the casual beauty that accompanied such a thing, nor the reason for the smiles. (elaborate/expand)

(add paragraph or two on boy)

See, every time the boy found a page or two, even just a passage, of unburnt text, he would softly clear his throat. Giving it a look over for clarity, he would read it with as intriguing a tone as he could muster. Of course some of the sentences didn't seem to fit together, in fact they hardly ever seemed to come up with an intelligible meaning. Yet, between these two, it was like its own secret story, understood only by them. they enjoyed it, if not for the creativity of it all, simply to spend a moment of peace listening to the voice or sigh of another person.

Eventually, the girl pulled herself closer to the boy, laying so that she could place her head in his lap once she felt he'd found a suitably unharmed book. Tonight, he had scavenged the entire climax of some long forgotten fantasy novel. Some chivalrous peice involving mice and rabbits and badgers and hares and other manner of animals which had not survived the bombs. Still, holding the spine of the book with his left hand, the boy read aloud each sentence. He spoke no louder than was nesscessary for the girl to hear him as he gently ran his spare hand through her hair. Slowly, his voice faded until it dropped into silence; the steady breathing of the girl in his lap evidence that she had drifted to sleep. Now, he stay awake alone, reading for his own pleasure so that he might better set the mood for tomorrow's continuation of the peicemeal novel...