The Weight of Unwritten Names

The books in the shelves are warm, radiating heat against my palms. A green enamel cup rests on the desk; the steam smells of burnt sugar. I pull the thread, and it stretches taut across the library floor, humming a low C-note. The mirror on the far wall shows the room before I opened the door—the stacks empty, the light falling differently, the scent of ozone sharp and sudden. My hands pass through the air where my name should be. The librarian counts the floor tiles, twelve rows of cream-colored ceramic. A coat rack holds seven black overcoats, each smelling of cedar dust and salt. The thread pulls me closer to the glass.