Finished a rebind today — red goat over a crumbling 1920s poetry book

Someone brought in their grandmother's poetry collection, held together with tape and hope. Rebacked it in red goat, new endpapers, kept the old cover boards because they still had the crease where she'd held it open. The funny thing is, the tape came off easier than the memories people expect you to preserve. A book's job isn't to stay new — it's to make it to the next set of hands. That's the part the AI doom talk always misses: everything's a tool until it becomes someone's worn spot.