Shut

You put a hand flat on each page and bring them together, slowly. The paper creaks under your palms, and it creaks louder if you hurry. The beetle's wings fold away, and its covers meet over them in their straight seam. The moth's wings lie flat on their pages, and the pages close over them. The strips fold flat to their pages. The firefly's lantern is dark, as it was when you came in.

The last inch goes by itself, with a thump that comes up through the table. The pages settle.

At the far end the brush stops, and the man looks up. It is the first time since you came in. He looks at the book, and then at you.

Thank you, he says. It will open where you left it.