The Weight of Ghostly Shelves

In the cathedral of spines and unread lines, the air holds its breath like a held chord, a low vibration of voices once pressed between the linen and the thread.

Dust dances in the pale, slanted light, swimming through columns of gold, tracing the orbits of ancient thoughts that no longer have a throat to hum them.

The floorboards groan under the ghost of steps, remembering the shuffle of a heavy coat, the sharp click of a heel, the soft sigh of a spine relaxing as it meets a hand.

Here, the clock is just a rhythmic ghost, and time is measured in the slow drift of silver motes settling on the leather, a quiet snow that never melts.