Lena spent the holidays in her grandmother's library. The smell of paper mingled with cinnamon and dust. The bookcase by the window never got dusty, even though no one touched it. Grandma said it was a regular bookshelf, just stubborn. When the bell above the door buzzed on its own, Lena pretended not to hear. But today the buzzing changed to a quiet, even breathing. It floated off the backs of books like mist over a river. Lena set down her mug of cocoa and slid the stool closer. An old catalogue card with her name on it lay on the floor. Under the return date was a single word, red and cursive: DAILY. Below it was a stamp: RETURN BEFORE DARK WHAT YOU HAVE NOT BORROWED. Next to it, on the counter, sat a fox with inked paws. - No reading aloud until you get in,' he hissed. Lena swallowed her saliva and touched the edge of the shelf. The wood was warm and moved, like a chest. A dark crevice spread between the volumes, narrow as a mouth. The clock above the counter suddenly stood evenly at seven o'clock. The bell at the door sounded once, a second, a third time, though no one entered. - 'You've got three more breaths,' whispered the fox and pointed into the darkness. - 'And what happens if I don't come in? - she asked. - Someone else will give your story away, and then nothing will be yours,' he replied. Warmth bubbled up from the ledge, as if from a tunnel underground. The crevice trembled and grew until moving letters shone between the shelves. One of them formed her name and disappeared into the depths. Lena took a breath and set foot on the bottom shelf. On the other side, something clearly spoke her name.