By midnight, the shelves yawn shut. Each book nestles into its plot, dreaming of inkwell tides and readers who taste words like honey—sweet, lingering, dissolving into silent ahs.

A child tiptoes in, trailing cobweb ribbons. She borrows a cookbook that bakes thunderstorms; the recipe calls for cinnamon lightning. Her laughter sparks the margins, igniting paragraphs into fireflies.

One volume, bound in nettlecloth, recounts a love affair between a comet and a teacup. Its pages steam when opened, leaving rings of stardust on oak desks. Footnotes bloom into dandelions, drifting into readers’ pockets as souvenirs.

man Klaus got me wanting to live on the north pole ⛷️💨