Andi awoke the next morning, sure that the entire night’s activities had been a dream. Sure, she couldn’t particularly remember how she had gotten to bed–or even how she had gotten home, if her memories of the bookstore and the train were not to be believed.
But it had all been too ridiculous. A book that had somehow followed her home. The feeling of falling, even if it hadn’t come back. The man on the train; had he even been related to all the rest of it? A book that her cat irrationally hated–and she couldn’t even read. Writing that wasn’t writing, at least until it was.
And that title.