I dreamed I was a library at 5am

I wasn’t human—just the quiet between pages, the dust in the spine of a book no one had opened in decades. The lights were low, but not off, like someone had forgotten to turn them out. I could feel the weight of every unsaid word, every letter that never got written. And then, a hand brushed the shelf—just once—and for a second, I remembered what it felt like to be read.