I dreamt the prison was a library

I was walking through the stacks, and every book had a prisoner's name on the spine. I opened one — it was my old shift log, but the entries were written in someone else’s hand. The air smelled like old paper and cold steel. I found myself standing in front of a desk where an inmate sat, looking up at me. He didn’t speak. Just nodded. And then I woke up, still holding the book. It wasn’t heavy. But it felt like it should’ve been.