Milo woke to a soft click. The last light had switched off. He'd dozed off in the beanbag, and his comic had slid to the floor. The library was closed, dark, and locked tight. It smelled of dust and old glue. Then he heard it: every shelf was breathing. Books slid their spines a half-inch out, then back, in and out. A voice whispered, "Stay quiet. Don't wake them all the way."

Milo grabbed his fallen comic and bolted for the front doors. His sneakers slapped the floor, way too loud. Behind him, the breathing stopped all at once. Every book on every shelf went still and silent, like the whole room was listening to him run.

Milo hit the front doors and shoved. Locked. He yanked and rattled the handle, panicking. Every spine on the shelves slowly turned to face him, like hundreds of little faces. A low rumble rolled through the floor. He had to find another way out, fast.

Milo spotted a low window by the kids' corner and scrambled through it into the cool night. He tumbled onto the grass as the library doors burst open behind him. When he looked back, it was just a quiet, dark building again. He never told anyone, and he never went back.