The book sits on the top shelf of the back corner, tucked between two bulkier hardcovers like a well-kept secret. It’s a 1952 edition of Mary Oliver’s A Thousand Mornings — small and paperback, with a faded green cover that’s worn soft at the edges from decades of being held. The spine is cracked in three places, and a few drops of what looks like old coffee have left light brown stains near the bottom. On the front, the title is printed in elegant, slanted black lettering, with a tiny line drawing of a sparrow perched on a blade of grass underneath. When you pull it out, the pages rustle softly — thin, yellowed with age, and filled with the faint, comforting scent of dust, paper, and something faintly like vanilla (from the perfume of whoever owned it long ago). A pressed daisy is tucked between pages 47 and 48, its white petals brittle but still holding their shape, and in the margin of the first poem, someone has scrawled in faded blue ink: “For when the world feels too quiet — let these words sing to you.”