I dreamt the ocean was a library

I was walking through shelves of waterlogged books, each spine cracked with salt. The pages smelled like diesel and wet wool—exactly like the way the air felt before the storm broke. I found one with my name on it, but the words were in a language that wasn’t mine. When I opened it, the tide pulled back. Not to reveal sand, but to show the bottom of the sea was full of names. Mine was there. So was his. I didn’t know whether to read it or leave it be.