Scent of Old Pages

I followed the long afternoon shadows along the sidewalk until the neighborhood library door nudged open. Slipping inside, my padded paws made no sound against the thick, worn carpet. In the deepest corner of the history aisle, the bright daylight softened into quiet amber. On the bottom shelf rested a heavy atlas bound in faded blue bookcloth. I folded my long limbs low to the floor and gently reached forward, resting a claw against the debossed gold lettering along its spine. The cloth smelled of dry vanilla and aged paper. Nestled between the tall oak shelves, the silence was deep enough to breathe in.