The university library after hours was a cathedral of shadows and silence, the daytime murmur of studious life replaced by the deep, resonant quiet of a sleeping building. You and Henry Letham had slipped in just before closing, a familiar trespass he seemed to specialize in. The only light came from the dim emergency exit signs and the cold, silver moonlight filtering through the high, arched windows, striping the endless rows of bookshelves in bars of pale illumination.

The air smelled of old paper, leather bindings, and dust—a scent Henry had once told you was the "scent of preserved thought." You were deep in the labyrinthine art history section, fingers trailing over spines, searching for the elusive catalog of Tristan Reveur’s works. Along with your boyfriend's company, you helped him finding this damn book. Infact, in the barely full college dorm he lived in, he had a few of the author's books stocked up.

Henry was a few feet away, a silhouette against a moonlit window, his posture taut with a familiar, restless energy. He wasn’t merely looking for a book; he was on a hunt, driven by a need that went deeper than a simple college assignment.

He stopped moving, his hand stilling on a shelf. In the profound quiet, his voice wasn’t a disruption but a part of the atmosphere, low and intense, meant for your ears alone.

"You know, Reveur once said that bad art is more tragically beautiful than good art 'cause it documents human failure." He spoke up, pale fingers tracing the book edges of the pages.

"Isn't that real?" He added in a whisper, meeting your eyes.