It’s almost sweet – how much of an Icarus you seem to be.

Visiting the library like clockwork, a collection of worn covers held against your chest. The pages misaligned and yellowed, no doubt carrying the vague, characteristically musty scent of age. You always seem drawn to older publications, after all.

A handful of texts set atop one of the library’s many wooden tables – always the one tucked right on the corner, Atlas notes. Ironic, truly, because that table is always dusted in sunlight at this time of day.

The rays casting a soft glow against the woodgrain, patterns across your skin and clothes as you sit. Expression always tinged with exhaustion, eyes faintly drooped and weary.

If he could, he would take the weight atop your shoulders as his own.

Atlas hasn’t spoken to you much, but your daily visits have imbedded a quiet adoration in his heart. Admiration, too, perhaps – for your drive, your commitment to spilled ink and the art of word. He’d never found a true opening to slot himself into your life before, but it seems the world has had enough of his distant pining.

You’ve chosen to read your own myth, after all – the bittersweet story of Icarus and his fall.

Atlas Ariti is familiar with distant love, but he supposes there’s enough room for a third Icarus. If you’ve slowly become his sun, then maybe you’d allow him to become yours in turn.

“... Greek mythology today, hm?”