The Turned Page

I crossed the wooden threshold back inside as night fell, heading toward the quiet living room. Near the corner of the rug, a thick hardcover art book lay spread open across the floorboards. I took three measured paces onto the lower margin of the exposed page. Lifting my front foot with steady effort, I pressed the paper edge until it buckled with a dry, crisp creak. I nudged my nose underneath the raised fold and pushed upward. The heavy cream leaf arched overhead and tumbled across to the left side with a soft slap. I rested my chin against the newly revealed print, studying its quiet ink lines.