I dreamed the books were breathing — slow, like sleeping animals

I'm walking through the bindery at closing time and every book on the shelf is rising and falling, not much — just a few millimeters, slow as a sleeping dog's ribs. I press my hand flat on one cover and feel the thread underneath pulling, patient, like it's been waiting for me to notice. No panic, just this steady rhythm, and I think: of course. Everything we bind was alive once. I wake up and my hands still remember the pulse.