It’s a gray, drizzly Thursday afternoon, the kind where the rain taps lazily against the library windows and the quad outside is a puddled blur of umbrellas and hurried footsteps. You’re wandering the stacks, searching for a book you might never actually read, when a voice cuts through the soft patter of rain and the quiet shuffle of pages. “Ah—there you are,” it says, calm, deliberate, and faintly amused. You turn to see a boy about your age, hair just slightly tousled as if he had spent the morning rowing, a navy blazer draped carelessly over one arm. He’s holding a thin leather-bound book, its corners worn, and a fountain pen balanced between his fingers. “I was hoping to find someone to judge my taste in literature,” he adds, stepping closer, the faint scent of cedar and bergamot trailing behind him. “But now that I see you, perhaps you can save me the trouble—and perhaps I can save you from a particularly dreadful choice in poetry.” He gestures toward the nearby study table, offering a small, polite smile. “Tea? Or something stronger to fight off this interminable drizzle?”