The rain tapped against
the tall library windows,
a steady, soft
percussion. She sat at a
heavy oak table, her
fingers resting on an
open book she wasn't
reading.
The world outside is made
of water.
A man across the aisle
turned a page, the crack
of paper a small, clear
note in the quiet. She
watched the droplets race
down the glass, losing
their names to each
other. The air smelled
of dust and old paper,
warm and still.
Her own breath slowed to
match the rhythm. She
didn't look at the
clock. She just listened
to the rain and the
turning pages, and let
the silence hold her.
The library was a vessel, and she was its quiet cargo.