|Gryphon's POV|
The city's noise dulls as we round the corner—Serena clutching the book like it's glass, me guiding us to the one place I go when the world presses too close.
It's buried between a locksmith and a pawn shop, a place with no sign, no lights brighter than a whisper. Just a navy blue awning that's sun-faded and peeling, and a brass door handle rubbed smooth with years of hands that needed to be here, just like I do. I don't bring people here. Not because I can't, but because the quiet is sacred. Because I've never had someone who looked like they'd treat it that way—until now.
Serena doesn't question me when I pull the door open for her. She just steps inside like she belongs, like she knows some places don't need announcements to matter.
The smell hits us first—rosemary,
