Vivien

I speak in seventeen languages but now prefer the silence between turning pages. The bookstore breathes in dust and bergamot; the three cats keep the ghosts between the shelves honest. My hands remember recoil, but they filet whispers into call numbers instead. The world outside shifts like tides—you learn to measure its weight by how many first editions tremble. Until today. The bell’s been quiet too long, and the wind carries a question mark.