113 | SUNRISE

I awoke in the early hours of the morning. The twilight of the evening had passed, the world rolling through to a hazy dawn while I’d slept. My neck ached from its crooked angle, pressed against the wood of the window seat and tilted downwards.

I’d slumped forwards, but the small, purple book was still balanced on my lap. I looked around, blinking through the stupor that came from falling asleep unintentionally.

The lantern was still flickering, but the burning light of the morning sun outside was brighter. It spilled into the library, brushing against the spines of the old books and dancing across the trailing green leaves of the houseplants.

I wrenched my curled body out of the window seat, and carefully tucked the book into my tote bag. My forehead felt sweaty, and I dabbed at it with the hem of my sleeve. I felt disorientated, as though my dream world had not quite left my mind. It was unsettling, but I s