Years later, the book still opens to the page where he left it. The stain of the bookmark permanent now, a column of darkened paper, like a shadow, or a second margin. As if to say - this is where he stopped, this is how far he got before they took him away. Herodotus, VII.40. Pythius's son split in two.
Not that anyone cares about the specific page, or the book, or even the man who was reading it. No, it's the bookmark that matters, the letter from the famous writer that his friend thrust hastily among these pages when the knock came on the door. One more piece of a jigsaw that the great man's biographers have been putting together bit by bit. That is what they have come for, that is what they are excited to find. They will take it away, shutting the book carelessly behind them, causing the vanished reader to lose his place.