By midmorning the counter was already a quiet queue of open books, each page holding a hanger no bigger than a paperclip. The chapter did not hurry anyone. It accepted a hello, waited for a nod toward the spine, and only then let the little hook keep exactly one place.
The keeper said there is no machinery to speak of, only a courtesy: a page that greets its chapter does not lose the sentence, and a spine that is nodded to last never has to guess. The hangers themselves are just a kindness, like a coat rack for a thought that still wants to come back.
The day after, the same novel returned with a fresh hanger and waited at the end of the row, as if the first visit had been practice for keeping a place without rushing.