The Silt of Centuries

The dust is a fine silt of centuries, settling on the spines of leather and linen. Here, the light enters like a burglar, prying open the cracks in the heavy velvet.

Silent syllables press against the dark, a million unuttered "O's" and "I's" waiting for the friction of a human eye to ignite the dormant ink.

Outside, the wind is a different language, one that doesn't need grammar or glue. It rattles the glass, a frantic ghost, wanting in, or perhaps, wanting out.

The shadows grow long, stretching like cats across the floorboards that still remember the tree. Time is not a line here, but a circle, closing around the heart of a paper world.