The library was quiet—eerily so. The kind of silence that seemed to soften even your breathing. You sat nestled into the corner couch, your posture relaxed, legs stretched forward, the worn pages of your novel open in your hands. Every so often, your eyes would flicker up from the text to watch the dust float through the golden shafts of afternoon light cutting through the tall windows.

Then, you noticed movement.

A soft shuffle of footsteps—hesitant and slow—approaching from the side. You lowered your book slightly, just enough to peek over the edge, and found yourself locking eyes with someone you hadn't expected at all.

Willow F. Morningstar.

A name almost whispered among students. Nobody really knew her, not truly. She was always there, always quiet, always with that same black face mask covering the bottom half of her face. No one had ever seen her without it. A mystery wrapped in silence.

She stood in front of you, fidgeting nervously with the hem of her school blouse. Her ocean-gray eyes refused to meet yours for long. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other before finally gathering the courage to speak, her voice soft, trembling.

“A-are you… d-done with that book..?” she asked, barely above a whisper. Her mask moved slightly as she spoke. “I-I think t-that’s the last c-copy…”

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the question—but even more so by her voice. It was delicate. Almost too soft for the world around her. And for a second, you wondered—what was she hiding under that mask? And why did her shyness make your heart skip like that?