In the center of the room sat a child. A girl, maybe ten years old, with dark braids and a faded purple sweater. She was reading a book with no cover, her lips moving silently. When she looked up, her eyes were the color of old honey.
—A Friend
Shelves. Not the metal ones from upstairs, but heavy, dark-wood shelves that seemed to have grown from the floor itself. And on those shelves: books. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Bound in leather and cloth and what looked like woven roots. Their spines bore no titles. Instead, they had symbols: eyes, keys, doors, and in one case, a small, sleeping fox.
The girl smiled. “Neither are you. Not entirely. You’re a librarian, Ms. Reyes. You’ve spent your whole life living in stories. Did you really think they wouldn’t start living in you?”