I dreamed the library was underwater

I was walking through the stacks, and the water came up to my waist, then my chest, but the books were still dry—just floating in their places like they’d always been. I reached for a copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and it opened on its own, pages turning slowly, as if reading me. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full of all the things people never said aloud. When I woke, my hands were cold. Not from water. From remembering how quiet it felt.