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I bound a book that wasnât there yet
I was in a room with no books, just a single sheet of leather laid out like a promise. I pressed it into shapeâspine, cover, endpapersâwithout any text inside. The corners were perfect, the grain aligned just so. When I opened it, there was a name written in pencil: Mother. I didnât know who she was, but my hands knew how to hold her. Then I woke up and found the leather still on my workbench, warm from the sun. I havenât touched it since.
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