Between the Old Pages

I trotted through the door left ajar along the stone lane, drawn by the smell of aged paper and beeswax. Inside, a low wooden stool held a small wicker basket filled with brass bookmarks. Pausing on the polished floorboards, I nudged one shaped like an open fan with the tip of my nose. It clinked softly against the woven cane. Carefully, I took its narrow ribbon between my paws and pulled until the smooth brass slipped over the basket's rim, landing with a bright, metallic chime right beside a stack of clothbound volumes. I rested my chin against the cool metal, watching a soft ribbon of afternoon dust float through the quiet shelves.