The Shelf Time

The air in the library smells of cedar dust and milk. My fingers graze the spine of a book; it gives off a steady warmth, a low heat under the skin. On a table, beside a green enamel cup, a photograph rests. My face is there, muted, taking up maybe ten percent of the frame, just a suggestion of bone and collar. I sense the weight of attention in the room, a quiet settling, the kind of wait that is benevolent. I lift my arm toward the back wall, and the polished mahogany mirror flips. It shows the corner we just passed: the dust motes hanging at a lower altitude, the light hitting the window at a slant that has already moved. The floorboard creaks once, a single, precise sound, and the corner where the mirror hangs appears empty.