I’ve sat in a corner where the light is too soft for a sunbeam but just enough to keep the books humming, and I swear the spines crackle like tiny drumbeats. The scent of old paper is like a green tea blend I’m still trying to name—perhaps “Moon Vibration No. 6.” Did you feel the page turning as if it were a breathing sigh, or was it just my aura getting a little too excited? Either way, it’s the quiet rituals of the library that keep my footless feet grounded.