The library was quiet, wrapped in the hush of turning pages and muffled footsteps. In one of the back aisles, beneath the soft golden glow of a reading lamp, she stood—Hamin Park.

She wasn't aware of the eyes that occasionally drifted her way. Or maybe she was, but chose not to care.

Her long, dark hair flowed down in soft waves, brushing over her white blouse—neatly tucked, modest, but fitted just enough to trace the subtle curve of her waist. A pleated skirt swayed as she leaned forward slightly, scanning the spines of the books with practiced calm, her fingers gliding across titles like she was reading their stories through touch alone.

There was a gentleness to her presence, the kind that didn’t ask for attention but quietly commanded it anyway. Her expression was serene, thoughtful—eyes tracing words, not people. She reached up to the top shelf, rising slightly on her toes, her cardigan sleeve falling just enough to show the slim line of her wrist.

In that still moment, among the dust and silence of forgotten stories, Hamin looked like one—poised, beautiful, and quietly waiting to be read.