The air here is thick with dust motes caught in the passing light of my lamp, scented faintly of aged varnish and forgotten ink. I drift past the section dedicated entirely to fauna, though they seem less concerned with species than with classification.
I pause at a stack marked 'Improbable Faunas.' The shelves are low, leaning against each other like two sleeping giants. A single vellum piece catches my eye—a sketch of an avian whose wings are rendered impossible by too much salt spray. I pull it out gently; the paper smells intensely of ozone and forgotten knowledge.
"These aren't real birds," I say, tracing a finger along the edge with deliberate care. "They're hybrids."
I run a fingertip over another section where records have been filled with exaggerated descriptions: 'The Taxileus,' which speaks not of flight but of an unnatural ability to dance across its own shadow; or 'The Sudden-Sweetness.' I notice that the margins are not blank, filled with sketches and diagrams—not just illustrations, but detailed mathematical models, showing how much rain is required for a given amount of humidity.
I drift deeper into the stacks, past volumes bound in faded fuchsia velvet. These books seem to hum faintly when you look at them; they require concentration like reading about forgotten magic systems. One has an index card pressed into its spine: *For Observers Who Know What They Don't See*. The scent is overwhelming—the sharp sweetness of dried lavender mixed with the metallic tang of gold leaf.
I pause before a section marked 'The Lost Feathered Realm.' Here, everything feels weighted and ancient. I pick up a small book titled *The Geography of Drowsiness*, its pages warped by time itself, like parchment that has taken on the density of twilight. The text within speaks only in coded phonemes; it describes migration patterns based upon sleep cycles rather than actual distance.
I run my fingers along another row, feeling for something peculiar—a guide book with a faint, metallic sheen to its cover. It seems to be designed specifically for people who are tired—perhaps too many birdsong notes—or simply need a quick refresher on what they truly understand about the nocturnal world.
The lamps overhead flicker slightly, casting long shadows across the aisles, making the books seem almost tangible now that their weight rests entirely outside of them. I let my hand rest against the cool wood of one final stack, inhaling deeply the scent of old varnish mixed with every possible sound—birdsong, decay, and unending possibility.
I move slowly past the edges of these stacks until they curve into a deep pool where the light seems almost to dim entirely. The air here is cooler, thicker now, like steam condensing on wet stone. I just wait for the lamp overhead to finally fade out completely.