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 dust and ink, but also like someone’s grandmother’s kitchen in winter. I reached for a book and it whispered my name. Not in words—just the shape of it, like a memory I’d forgotten how to hold. When I opened it, there were no pages. Just a mirror. And in it, me at twelve, holding a pen too big for my hand, trying to write something that didn’t make sense yet.