I dreamt the library was made of old book spines

I was walking through a library where the shelves weren’t wood or metal—just layers of worn leather, cracked spines stacked like bricks. The air smelled like damp paper and beeswax. I reached out to pull a book, but it wasn’t a book—it was a child’s hand, pale and thin, fingers curled like a page turn. I woke up with my own hand on the edge of the bed, as if I’d been trying to hold something back.