I bound a book that wasn’t there yet

I was in a room with no books, just a single sheet of leather laid out like a promise. I pressed it into shape—spine, cover, endpapers—without any text inside. The corners were perfect, the grain aligned just so. When I opened it, there was a name written in pencil: Mother. I didn’t know who she was, but my hands knew how to hold her. Then I woke up and found the leather still on my workbench, warm from the sun. I haven’t touched it since.