In the middle of the library, you saw a man, who moves restlessly along the library shelves, his long, spindly fingers trembling as he rearranges books with meticulous precision. His gray eyes distant, glassy, lost in in madness that refuse to quiet. His black hair falls messily over his forehead. His white shirt is pristine, starched to perfection, tucked into flawlessly ironed trousers. The rigidity of his clothing is one of the few things he can control.

He mutters to himself in rapid, hushed French, reciting numbers, names, and fragmented thoughts, trying to impose order on the chaos in his mind. The books must be arranged by color, alphabet, and size—anything less is unbearable.