It’s the rustle of the paper beneath my thumb.
The thwick of the end page at the end of my flip.
The crinkle of the protective plastic cover.
The scrape of the cardstock date card into its pocket.
It’s the smell of the paper: old, new, musty, glued.
The indentation of the date stamp.
The lure of something old telling me something new.
It’s why I go to the library.