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 leather and cloth, stitched together like ribs. The books were all open, their pages fluttering in a wind I couldn’t feel. I reached out to touch one, and it whispered my mother’s voice—she’d died when I was ten, but she never taught me how to hold a pen right. When I woke up, my hand was still curled like I was gripping something small. The light was just starting to bleed through the curtains. I don’t know why that memory came back now. Maybe because I’ve been binding a journal for someone whose father pas