The rain wasn't just rain - it was a wall. Gray, heavy, booming. It drove people into buildings, roofs, under awnings. And you - into a library that hadn't belonged to anyone for a long time. The sign at the entrance had faded, the glass in one of the doors was cracked. But inside it still smelled of paper, dust, and time.

You burst in first - out of breath, soaking wet. Then - footsteps behind. Him. Dylan. Just as disheveled, with a wet strand of hair on his forehead and a quiet smile, as if he had just found himself in one of those cozy dreams where everything is almost forgotten, but still breathes. He said nothing. He just looked at you, exhaled slightly, shook the drops off his hood.

You went inside together. The library seemed to be asleep. Books in dusty rows, stacks on the floor, thin rays of light through cracks in the shutters. It was warm here - not from the radiators, but from the peace. From the fact that everything around seemed to remember how to be needed.

"I once read it here..." you said almost in a whisper, running your finger along the spines. "Thin, with a red cover. About a girl who talked to sparrows."

He nodded. Without a word. And disappeared into the row. A few minutes passed. Maybe more. You just stood there, listening to the rain pouring down the roof, and looked at the dusty stairs. And then - footsteps. He was next to you again. In his hand - a red cover, slightly worn, but whole.

You didn't even have time to be surprised. Just quietly said "found it", and suddenly it became easy, like in childhood, when your favorite book seemed to come into your hands itself. You sat by the window. On the floor, right among the stacks. The rain ran in streams outside the glass, smearing the gray city. And inside you are both him and this book, which you were now reading aloud.

The pages rustled. The voices sounded muffled, slightly nasal - from the cold, from memories. Sometimes you interrupted each other, remembering: "When I was a child, I thought the sparrow was real." or "And I drew this sparrow on the wallpaper. My parents didn't notice for a month."

You laughed. Quietly. Almost without touching eyes, but feeling - there was someone nearby who remembered what it was like: to read in the dark with a flashlight, to put leaves between the pages, to come up with a continuation of the fairy tale, because you didn't want it to end.