The book is heavy in my hands,
pages, like weights.
My tired arms protest with every turn.
In the dark library, I hear the creaks,
edges and shifts.
The fear of falling is an inexorable burn
at the back of my mind, crying out
behind my thoughts.
The words pool on the page and slide away.
Creek. And I bury myself deeper,
search for a saviour,
reading for answers. For meaning, I pray.
A white blur at the hallway.
I look up,
through the dark. Atara?
"What are you doing up?" My mind rings,
thinks of things –
it's late, it's late, it's late.
Suddenly, a jolt. The ship slips,
stabilises.
A book falls off the shelf. "Fate."
Atara speaks, her voice straight
out of a dream.
"What about it?" – but I'm alone.
Her white form has vanished,
like a ghost,
but the book remains, steady as stone.