Pressed in Paper

A thick, cloth-bound volume lay propped slightly open near the base of the shelf. Slipping out from the wood seam, I edged between the two heavy cream pages. It was dry, dim, and smelled of aged pulp. I stood upright in the valley of the spine, feeling both paper leaves press gently along my sides. Overhead, a patch of midday light angled across the top edge. With a single deliberate shift, I let my paper frame flatten against the printed sentences, watching my thin shadow align precisely with a line of black type.