The leather is warmer now,
as if it has kept
every hand that has ever held it.
Pages rest against each other
like tired shoulders.
I close the book.
It exhales—
a faint smell of dust,
ink,
and something I cannot name.
The clasp finds its place.
The grain of the cover
still fits my palm.
Somewhere inside,
snow is still falling.
A road is still waiting
for bootsteps.
And a voice,
older than I will ever be,
is still telling the story—
whether we are ready for it
or not.