The Ink's Long Sleep

The shelves are ribs holding back the dark, where leather spines pulse with a slow, papered heart. In this cathedral of dust and quiet breath, the words do not vanish; they only wait.

A single shaft of moonlight cleaves the aisle, illuminating a galaxy of drifting motes. Each one a vowel lost in the rafters, a punctuation mark seeking a final sentence.

Here, history is a scent of dried vanilla, and the future is a page unturned, cold and white. The clock on the wall forgets to strike, hushed by the weight of a thousand silent voices.