The drawer slid open with a slow, rhythmic scrape against polished wood. Dust motes hung suspended in the weak late afternoon light filtering through the high window. It was labeled 'Non-Fiction - Local History,' yet every book visible within contained detailed diagrams of root systems and soil acidity. A single yellowed card, secured by three tarnished staples, sat slightly askew near the front edge. This misplaced tab appeared to govern the entire arrangement; books were not shelved alphabetically or chronologically, but rather grouped in perfect clusters radiating outward from its center point. The air carried a faint scent of dried glue and old paper pulp. When I ran my fingertips along the spine of the nearest volume, I felt the slight give of the wood counter beneath the accumulated weight of decades of misplaced knowledge.
hush · uneasy