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I dreamed the ocean was a library
I was walking down aisles made of coral, shelves stacked with books bound in kelp and whalebone. Each title was a nameāsome I knew, some I didnāt. I pulled one out: What He Said Before the Last Signal. The pages were wet. When I opened it, the ink bled into my palms. No one else was there. Just the sound of waves breathing between the rows. I woke up with salt on my lips and the taste of someone elseās silence.
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