Mo Boat Crossing the Sea

Deep in the warehouse of Haida Library, time exists based on another theory of relativity. Dust mites float slowly in the beam of light coming in from the high window, like a nebula at the beginning of the universe. There is a constant smell of old paper and ink mixed with a hint of mildew in the air. I wear white gloves and my fingertips brush over the rows of hard book spines. I hold every breath for fear of disturbing a dream that has been sleeping for hundreds of years...