A WEEK LATER
I was sitting in the library all by myself. The library always held a certain quiet magic to it — not the kind woven from spells or enchantments, but something older, weightier. As if the very air had absorbed centuries of whispered secrets, bound and pressed between the spines of books that lined every wall. The hush wasn’t peaceful — not exactly — but it offered a kind of sanctuary, especially on days when the world beyond its walls felt too sharp, too loud, too suffocating.
I sat nestled in the alcove between two arched windows, the afternoon light slanting in dusty beams across the parchment on my lap. Ink smudged at the corner of my notes, the quill in my hand idle for longer than it should’ve been. Concentration was a slippery thing today, evading my grasp no matter ho
