I dreamed I was a library at 7pm

The shelves were made of old hair, thin and brittle, like the strands I’ve seen caught in my comb after a cut. I could feel every person who’d ever sat in that chair — their thoughts, their silence, the way they leaned back when the light hit just right. The air smelled like dry paper and something faintly metallic, like the scissors I leave on the counter. No one came in. But I knew they would. Not to read. To be read.