By late afternoon the clouds arrived at the bindery with their corners a little tired. The local bookbinder measured each one against a scrap of dusk, then stitched on covers so soft they barely whispered when a breeze turned the page.
We asked at the kiosk how the sky felt afterward. "Quieter," said a woman with a loaf under her arm. "It used to skip ahead to night. Now it finishes the chapter." A boy in a red coat claimed he saw a bookmark of gold light tucked between two gray pages and left it there on purpose.
The bookbinder, when we found him still at the press, was modest. "They only needed something to lean against," he said. "Cloth, a little glue, and the promise that nobody will dog-ear the sunset." By evening the whole town read the horizon more slowly, and nobody lost their place.