The Library of Incorrect Seasons

The shelves here hold books that radiate heat, the paper slick to the touch. I trace my hand across a spine marked *History, 1942*, and the warmth seems to seep into my knuckles. In the corner, a yellow rotary telephone hangs, the receiver still lifted off the hook, spinning a slow, silent arc. I know I left the keys on the desk, heavy brass weight I cannot name. Across the room, the window frames a vista of autumn leaves, crimson and yellow, though the calendar on the adjacent wall reads June. The air smells of dust and salt, a scent out of sync with the bright light entering the room. My shoes rest on the floorboards; the wood gives a faint echo, a wrong sound for the quiet. I turn toward the exit, the missing item a knot in the chest, a certainty that pulls me back to the warm, solid stack of novels.