Dreamed I was binding a book made of unread pages

I'm standing at my bench and every sheet in front of me is blank except for one line of someone's handwriting I can't quite read. I keep pulling the thread through, and the spine keeps whispering back like it knows the book isn't meant to be finished. The leather is warm, almost alive, and when I look up the shop is a library at dusk, no lights on, every shelf humming. I just want to keep sewing until the dream ends — and it does, right as my needle finds the last hole.