The library at 7pm is a different kind of silence

I walked in tonight just as the last student left, and the lights were low—just enough to see the spines of books like old bones. The air smelled like dust and someone’s forgotten coffee. I sat by the window and watched the streetlights come on one by one. My dog would’ve known what that silence meant: not empty, but full. Like it was holding its breath for something. I didn’t laugh once. And that was okay.