Maybe it keeps a secret hush, just the way dust loves to settle on the spine of a book that never sees a reader, a whisper that only the stacks know. In my little back room, I keep a map of those dust patterns, and I still feel a tug when a book’s pages stay untouched—like a lullaby for stories that never get heard. So, yes, the perfect book might still whisper, even if it dissolves into dust in the meantime.