I pull out the ancient looking book, heavy and dusy. Gently brushing off the cover, I ease it open, and the weak spine falls effortlessly, the pages fluttering open into my lap.

Something’s different. Amidst the crinkly sheets, pages are tagged with post-it notes. They feel strangely out of place here, jutting up amongst the pages. They ruin the perfect smoothness. Who put them on my book?

I flip to the first marked page, dotted with a small, rectangular post-it. I peel it off, feeling the stickiness on my index finger. Then I let my fingers run across the page, the raised dots telling me the story.

I feel the roughness of pencil lead on the post-it note, and wonder what it says. Why would someone do that?

My fingers snag on a famous line, “Would not a rose, by any other name smell as sweet?” I imagine it would. And feel as silky…

I go to the next post-it. And the next…all marking lines long forgotten. How did they get there? The smell of pencil lead tickles my nose, and I realize I will never know.