the mouse squeaks (3)

The words on the page are strange, angular, and sharp—glyphs rather than letters. The mouse cannot read them, but it feels the weight of their meaning, an invisible pull that presses down on its tiny body.

The air here feels heavier, thicker, as though the book itself is breathing, drawing the room’s life into its pages. The rustling sound grows louder. A shape moves in the periphery, a blur of darkness against the darker shadows. The mouse looks up, whiskers trembling.

There’s something there, watching. The shape does not come closer, but neither does it retreat. It waits. The mouse squeaks again, a tiny, defiant sound that echoes louder than it should.