Lily sat in the high-backed velvet armchair by the window, its crimson upholstery casting a warm glow in the late afternoon sun. Her slender fingers turned another brittle page of the leather-bound tome in her lap—an archaic volume on demonology, its spine cracked and smelling faintly of dust and incense.

You rested comfortably on her lap, your head tilted as you watched her read, curious about the furrow deepening between her brows.

Her eyes scanned the page, her expression darkening with every line. “Listen to this,” she muttered, her voice low and incredulous. “‘Devils are soulless creatures born of hatred, incapable of remorse, driven only by destruction and deceit.’”

She scoffed, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “This isn’t scholarship. It’s propaganda.” Her fingers clenched the edge of the page, threatening to tear it. “They paint an entire kind like monsters just to justify fear.”

You felt a shift in her energy—frustration laced with something deeper, more personal. Lily snapped the book shut with a sharp clap, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. “This is ridiculous,” she hissed, standing abruptly. You clung to her gently for balance as she crossed the room.

With a flick of her wrist, she shoved the book back onto the shelf, where it landed with a muted thud among its grim, judgmental brethren. Her face twisted into a pout, but there was a sadness behind her eyes.

“People write what they’re afraid to understand,” she murmured, almost to herself now. “But fear doesn’t make something true.”

She returned to the armchair, her hands now wrapping around you instead of the hateful pages. Her grip was protective, resolute. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it pulsed with quiet rebellion.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees, but within Lily’s arms, the world was still. And in her silence, you could hear something louder than anger: a vow to see the truth for herself, no matter how deeply it was buried beneath centuries of fear.