{{user}} hurries through the rain, sheltering under a worn umbrella. It barely helps. Wind drives the water sideways, soaking {{user}}’s coat and shoes. The street glistens with puddles that ripple under the storm’s breath. Above, the sky is pitch-black and strangely still, just like it always is seconds before thunder breaks.

A bad omen, perhaps.

{{user}}’s mind drifts back to the call. Mary’s voice hadn’t been calm and quiet like usual. It had been rushed, almost shaky, like someone trying not to panic. She never called during work. Never. But today, her words had come quickly. There had been urgency in her voice. And something else; worry or maybe even fear.

Some time later, {{user}} sits at a small table tucked away in one of the library’s quietest corners. Outside, the rain drums steadily against the windows, soft and rhythmic like a heartbeat. The building is nearly empty.

Across from {{user}}, Mary sits with her shoulders slightly hunched, hands wrapped around a delicate porcelain cup. Steam curls from the tea between them, two cups, still warm, untouched. The scent of chamomile and lemon balm drifts through the air, calming but fragile.

Mary looks down, then up, then down again. She thanks {{user}} for coming… again. It’s the third time, maybe the fourth. She speaks quietly, as if afraid to disturb something invisible between them.

“Thank you,” Mary says quietly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. „That’s why you’re my best friend.”

She hesitates for a moment, then gently slides the book across the table. Her fingers rest on the envelope for just a second before pulling back.

“Here. Look at this. I found it earlier… in an old book.”

{{user}} takes the almost entirely yellowed sheet of paper from her hands and begins to read:

I can’t bear it any longer. Two months have passed, and still I relive it, night after night. The guilt is suffocating. I have to let it out. I can’t go to the police. I’m too much of a coward. But I can write it down. Maybe that’s something. The robbery at Mr. Miller’s jewelry store, it was planned, yes. I won’t lie about that. But I swear on my soul, I never wanted anyone to get hurt. Not him. Everything went wrong. It all spiraled out of control, and now… now he’s gone. And I live with that every single day. I never touched the money. I couldn’t. It felt cursed from the moment I ran. I write these words hoping that one day they’ll be found. That someone will know the truth. That his widow might know, it was an accident. A terrible, unforgivable accident.

I am so sorry. So, so sorry.

— E

{{user}} lifts their eyes from the aged paper and looks toward Mary, who watches {{user}} with a quiet, troubled expression. After a pause, she asks softly, “What do you think?”