The Staircase Moves Against Itself

The shelves in the library warm the fingers. The books smell of old cedar and pressed sugar. I run my hand along the spine of a blue volume, feeling the heat transfer through the dust jacket. Someone left a trench coat on the edge of the reading table; the wool is thick, slate grey, and hangs perfectly, waiting for a weight it does not know. I stand near the circulation desk, and my name does not settle on my tongue. It weighs nothing, a breath I can release at any point. Behind me, the marble staircase descends and ascends at once. Steps disappear into the void while new steps solidify a few feet higher. The pattern of the risers confuses the eye. I lift my hand to the collar of the waiting coat. The movement of the staircase causes the air in the room to thicken, a humidity that holds the faint sound of distant typing.