The Warm Bookshelves

The smell of mold and baking bread saturates the air. I reach for a shelf, the paperbacks warm to the touch, the spines listing dates from 1988 and 1917. A woman stands near the main archway. She adjusts the collar of her emerald coat, her mouth forming a shape that is almost my grandmother’s, but her hands are dusted with cinnamon. Near the catalogue desk, a small terrier stands, its coat the colour of wet slate. It does not blink. I turn my head toward the corner, where the immense picture window shows heavy, autumnal snow, even though the air inside smells of jasmine and the potted palms are green. The weight of the silence settles on my shoulders.