Deep in my cortex, the year is divided into reading seasons. The

Host: The library café sat at the edge of the old university — a warm pocket of light and silence against the October rain that fell beyond the arched windows. Inside, the air carried the smell of roasted coffee, wet wool, and old pages. Shelves lined the walls; stacks of worn paperbacks filled every corner like sleeping thoughts.

A clock ticked slowly above the counter, its hands trembling toward seven. The season was shifting — the light outside had turned from gold to grey, from certainty to shadow.

Jack sat near the window, a cup of black coffee steaming before him, his coat collar damp, his eyes distant. Jeeny arrived a few minutes later, her scarf unraveling, her hands cradling a book whose spine was so cracked it seemed alive. She slid into the seat across from him with a smile that knew both fatigue and fondness.

The quote rested between them — handwritten on the margin of Jeeny’s notebook:
“Deep in my cortex, the year is divided into reading seasons. The period from mid-October to Christmas, for instance, is ‘ghost story’ time, while Jane Austen and P. G. Wodehouse pretty much own April and May.”

Jack: “Michael Dirda’s got a point. The man organizes his brain like a library catalog. I respect that. Reading seasons — it’s almost… biological.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than biology. It’s memory. Every season comes with its own story — and every story colors the season. That’s what he’s saying. The mind isn’t just a calendar; it’s a mood ring.”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the glass, distorting the streetlights into rippling gold smudges. Somewhere, a student laughed; a door creaked. The world outside was brisk and alive, but in here, time was slow — patient — like a book refusing to end.

Jack: “I think it’s ritual. People cling to structure when life gets chaotic. Ghost stories in October? That’s nostalgia disguised as culture. We crave predictability — a way to tell ourselves the world still makes sense.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten how to be enchanted. Maybe it’s not about predictability at all. Maybe it’s about rhythm — the soul’s heartbeat. The way October feels haunted by memory, how April feels like forgiveness. Books become anchors for those feelings.”

Host: Jeeny traced the rim of her cup with one finger, her eyes drifting toward the rain-slicked world outside. The café light flickered, dimming slightly, as if agreeing with her.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it again. Literature isn’t some cosmic tuning fork. It’s habit. A pattern of escapism. October means ghosts because someone decided it should. April means Austen because schools say so. You read what you’re told, when you’re told.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, sipping coffee on an October night, reading M. R. James. No one told you to do that. You do it because something deep inside you wants to believe in patterns — in a story large enough to hold you.”

Host: Jack looked down, a faint smirk curling his lips. The faint hum of a heater filled the silence — soft, steady, like a page being turned in the background of thought.

Jack: “Maybe I just like consistency. Ghosts in fall, humor in spring. Keeps the mind tidy.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the ghosts that like you. Ever think of that?”

Host: Jack laughed — quietly, the sound low and warm. Jeeny’s tone had a teasing glint, but her eyes carried depth — the kind that came from loving things people forgot to take seriously.

Jack: “You think books choose us?”

Jeeny: “Of course they do. Like seasons, they arrive when we’re ready — or when we need them. Some winters need Dickens. Some heartbreaks need Austen. Some silences demand poetry because prose feels too clean for pain.”

Host: The rain softened, but the night deepened. The lights outside blurred, turning the city into watercolor. Jack leaned back in his chair, his silhouette outlined in the café glow.

Jack: “You make reading sound like religion.”

Jeeny: “It is. Sacred, repetitive, transformative. Each re-reading is a confession, each new book a resurrection. Think of it — Dirda divides his year by stories, not dates. That’s not structure; that’s faith.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice lowered, almost reverent, the rhythm of her words matching the rain’s soft percussion. Jack’s gaze drifted to her notebook, where the quote sat underlined in fading ink.

Jack: “You really live inside this stuff, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No — I live through it. Books remind me who I am when life makes me forget. In autumn, I read ghost stories not because I want to be scared, but because they remind me that even the dead still want to be heard.”

Jack: “And Austen in April?”

Jeeny: “Because hope has manners in spring.”

Host: A pause — light as breath. The words hung in the warm air between them, their meaning tender and undeniable. The café’s background hum faded into something almost sacred.

Jack: “You know… I used to think reading was retreat. Something lonely. But maybe it’s actually the opposite. Maybe it’s conversation — just stretched across centuries.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When Dirda says his brain has reading seasons, he’s admitting he’s in dialogue with time. He’s not escaping the world — he’s synchronizing with it. Every story becomes a form of weather.”

Host: The window fogged, their reflections merging faintly in the glass — two shapes surrounded by rain and light, the world outside moving, but their corner still, luminous.

Jack: “So what’s this season for you?”

Jeeny: “This one? It’s for rediscovering ghosts — the kind that don’t haunt, but whisper. The kind that remind you you’re still alive because you can still remember.”

Jack: “And for me?”

Jeeny: “You? Maybe it’s your first chapter back.”

Host: Jack chuckled softly, his eyes falling to his half-empty cup. He said nothing more — just let her words settle, like dust in sunlight.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The clouds thinned, revealing a faint crescent moon, pale as parchment. The street below shimmered — wet, reflective, alive.

Jeeny closed her book, placing it gently beside his laptop.

Jeeny: “You know what I love most about Dirda’s quote? The idea that reading isn’t constant. That it has moods. That the mind, like the year, needs its dormancy, its bloom, its hauntings.”

Jack: “And when the seasons end?”

Jeeny: “They don’t. They just turn the page.”

Host: The barista dimmed the lights, signaling closing time. The café door creaked open, letting in a cool gust of night air — crisp, new, smelling of rain and possibility.

Jack stood, pulling on his coat, his eyes meeting Jeeny’s across the table.

Jack: “So what’s next season, then?”

Jeeny: “December. Fireside stories. Melancholy and miracles. Maybe a little redemption.”

Jack: “Then save me a seat.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: They stepped out into the night, their breath rising in small clouds, their footsteps echoing softly against the wet pavement. Behind them, the café lights went dark — but through the window, two empty cups still sat side by side, framed by stacks of books.

The city hummed, the air cooled, and above them the moonlight fell like a pale bookmark between one season and the next.

And somewhere deep in the cortex of the night, the world itself seemed to whisper — not ending, only turning.