HENRY’S POV
I had been warned. The east wing of the library was not for students, not for the curious, not for anyone without the stern librarian’s express permission. Yet the warnings worked on me like a charm, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.
That evening, when the halls were near empty and the lamps burned low, I found myself before the iron-gated door marked Restricted. The metal gleamed like something freshly sharpened. My heart hammered as if I were about to commit a crime—not theft, not violence, but something stranger. Something intimate.
The gate was not locked. That was the first shock. The second was the smell when I pushed it open: a mingling of leather, dust, candlewax, and something darker, sweeter, like incense from a half-forgotten temple. The air was heavie
