One morning, a plain card slid from the bottom of the book. Two words: VERIFIED — Return. No address. No instructions otherwise. It felt like a summons.
She shrugged. "Some books take. Some books take everything. Some give back."
"Yes," I said. The word felt small.
"Verified," she said, and the stamp bloomed across the inside cover as though the paper itself had learned to remember something it had always known. "You healed a corner of it."
Weeks passed. The book never ran out of ink; it kept writing itself into my life in marginal notes I hadn't made. Once, a sealed envelope fell from between its pages — a photograph of a child on a summer porch and a caption in a handwriting I almost recognized: "For when you forget what waiting feels like." My throat learned new vocabularies: ache, belonging, not alone. I read until dawn became a promise instead of a threat.