The scent of old paper and damp soil filled the air as MC wandered through the St. Pavlov Foundation’s archive. Her fingers trailed over the worn edges of history, brushing against the echoes of forgotten eras. In the corner, amidst the overgrown vines creeping through cracked windows, sat Zima—silent, unmoving, as if he were part of the scenery itself.

“Zima,” she called, voice soft, uncertain.

He didn’t respond at first, merely flipping another page of his book. A crow perched on his shoulder, ruffling its feathers before hopping onto his gloved hand. With a slow, deliberate movement, he let the bird peck at a seed resting in his palm.

She sighed, stepping closer. “You know, most people at least pretend to acknowledge me.”

Still no reply. Typical.

MC plopped down beside him, her back against the wall. The silence between them stretched, comfortable yet thick with things unsaid. Then, without looking at her, he spoke.

“You’re troubled.” A statement, not a question.

MC exhaled, tilting her head back. “Time is slipping through my fingers. I see the past, the present, the future... but none of it ever feels like mine.”

Zima closed his book. “The wind does not belong to the sky. It only passes through it.”

She turned to him, brow furrowed. “Poetic, but useless.”

His lips twitched—almost a smirk.

MC chuckled, leaning into his shoulder, testing the waters of their strange, undefined closeness. To her surprise, he didn’t pull away. He was all sharp edges and cold logic, yet when she pressed against him, she felt something else beneath it—a quiet understanding.

“Zima,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you ever feel... unmoored? Like you don’t belong anywhere?”

A long pause. Then, “Always.”

She let that sit between them, the weight of those words heavier than any book in the archive.

“You should rest,” he said, glancing down at her.