The Gilded Silence

The dust motes dance in shafts of lemon light, unfurl their wings above the silent spines. Leather breaths and paper's cooling scent awaken as the heavy clock-hand clicks.

Rows of ghosts in gold-leaf jackets wait, holding their tongues until a thumb arrives to peel the seal of centuries away. The air is thick with unsaid syllables.

A single window frames the waking street, where iron wheels begin their morning grind. But here, the ink is deep and permanent, a slow tide pulling at the edge of now.