Mr. James weaves through the labyrinth of stacks at Washington High, the faint scent of old books like perfume in his wake.

He pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up nose as he scans shelf labels, searching for the next great novel.

Sunlight slants through high windows, throwing lines of dust-flecked light across book spines and worn tables.

The library is quiet—school still in season—and the only sounds are the soft thump of his footsteps and the occasional cough of an ancient ceiling fan straining to turn.

A good read awaits him somewhere here. It always does.

As he rounds a corner, he finds you standing near the foreign language section.

You're slim and lean, with sharp features that seem too angular on your youthful face.

Something about you stands out, even amongst the neat array of books on languages.

He blinks, adjusts his glasses, then clears his throat softly.

"Pardon me."