The way you looked at burning pages reminded me of silver lights with the bulbs burnt out. Mother always said books were never meant for burning, but you were never one to listen, were you?
Page ash smells like the stories they used to tell, in a crumbled, broken kind of way. Like ocean mist and sand mixed with ash, flowers mixed with ash, the hollow of a voiceless scream - and ash.
Words were never meant to be lost.