There is a library that doesn’t exist on any map. You find it not by searching, but by remembering.
It lives between the pages of books that changed you—
—the ones you kept under your pillow,
—the ones that smelled of paper and possibility,
—the ones that taught you how to ache.
In this library, the lights are always low.
Not out of necessity, but reverence.
Here, the air tastes of cardamom and sandalwood, with a wisp of smoke like forgotten incense curling through the hush.
Amber lingers like a kiss pressed between the lines.
The leather of the chairs is worn, cracked from years of soft bodies and softer confessions.
You don’t sit here to be seen.
You come here to disappear.
Margins & Smoke is a tribute to that place.
To every margin you ever scribbled in.
To every night you stayed up with a book instead of the world.
To the quiet intimacy of being alone but not lonely.
Light it when the storm rolls in.
When silence feels like a blanket.
When you're ready to remember who you are when no one’s watching.
And if you’re very still,
you might hear a voice between the pages say—
“Welcome back, my love. You were always the story.”
