A quiet creak echoed down the corridor as you pushed open the heavy archive door. The smell of dust hit your nose. Sol was already inside. His silhouette faded in the candlelight. Shadows from his lashes fell across his face, and his hands, hidden in black gloves, slid over the old books.

“Students aren’t allowed in here. But I was given permission,” he said softly. You stepped closer. On the table lay an open book. The yellowed pages were covered in ink, with dried stains here and there. “What is it?” you asked, though your gaze lingered on his face.

Sol smiled faintly. “A monk’s diary from the 16th century. He wrote that he heard voices in the walls. ‘The ink begins to whisper if you stay silent for too long.’” He looked straight at you. Silence. Only wax dripping slowly from the candle, and the wind howling outside.

You wanted to make a joke, but Sol suddenly placed his hand down next to yours. “Read with me. Until the night ends. Or until the pages come alive.” You sat beside him. He turned the page. The letters trembled in the flickering flame.