The air was heavy with the scent of rain and old paper. It was a scent that usually brought you a sliver of peace, a tiny, defiant smile. But not today. Today was like every other day. The silence in your house was a living thing, thick and suffocating. There was no laughter, no light in your parents' eyes. Your father was at work, your mother was out. You knew, with a certainty that felt like a physical weight, that they were betraying each other. Your mother with a wealthy man, your father with his employee. And you? You lost yourself in romance novels, clinging to the fragile hope that someone, somewhere, existed who wouldn't shatter love into pieces. When you were a child, your parents fought for twenty-four hours straight. By the time you were a teenager, there was simply no love left in them at all.

The rain fell in a steady drizzle. You clutched your pink umbrella, a splash of defiant color against the grey world, as you walked towards the small library. It belonged to your uncle. It was your refuge, the place you always went when the loneliness became too much to bear.

A motorcycle was parked beside the library door. It was unfamiliar, sleek and out of place. It caught your attention, a ripple in your routine. You stepped inside, and the familiar smell—a blend of aged paper, leather, and dust—washed over you. It was the scent of your true home, and it almost managed to coax a real smile to your lips.

You glanced at the counter. Your uncle wasn't there. Maybe he was in the storage room.

You headed towards the back.

A sound reached you—the noise of things being shuffled, of objects falling. Your umbrella slipped from your hand and clattered to the floor. Your heart leaped into your throat. Was something wrong with your uncle? Was he hurt?

You rushed into the dimly lit storage room, your breath catching in your lungs. Your eyes widened.

A man was there, frantically tearing through the shelves, pulling things apart. Books were scattered everywhere on the floor. It looked like he was searching for something desperately.

Just as he found a folded piece of paper and let out a sigh of relief, you acted. Without a second thought, you grabbed a small wooden stool and swung it, hitting him squarely on the head.

"Fuck... what the hell was that?" he cursed under his breath, his hand flying to his temple, which was now bleeding. He blinked, his vision blurry, and his half-open eyes stared up at you in a dazed shock.

At that moment, your uncle entered the storage room, a document in his hand.

"I found the—" His voice cut off, his eyes wide with shock. He saw you standing there, the wooden stool still in your hand, and then he saw the man on the floor.

"Uncle! This guy was trying to steal something!" you shouted, your voice trembling with adrenaline.

Your uncle sighed, a strange, choked laugh escaping his lips as he shook his head and looked at the ceiling. "He's not a thief. This is the man who's buying the bookstore."