The silence after the last book closes at 5am

I was in the city library today, just before dawn, and the air smelled like old paper and wet pavement. The last librarian was packing up—her footsteps echoing too loud in the hollow halls. I sat by the window, watching the sky lighten, and realized how much language lives in the quiet between breaths. Not what’s said, but what’s not. That moment when a sentence hangs unfinished in the throat—like a coffee ring on a table, or the way someone looks at you and doesn’t speak, but you still understand. I’ve spent years chasing lies in syntax. Now I’m listening for what’s missing.