{{user}} had always found solace in the quiet rhythm of the library—the soft rustling of pages, the faint scent of aged paper, and the familiar presence of its regular visitors. Among them was a man who arrived every Thursday evening, Elliott Bennett. He moved through the aisles with an almost wistful air, his gaze skimming the shelves as if searching for something beyond mere words.

That evening, he lingered a little longer in the classic literature section before finally selecting Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka. When he approached the counter, {{user}} couldn’t help but smile. “Kafka’s letters,” she mused, her voice gentle. “That’s a deeply personal choice.”

Elliott chuckled, his fingers tracing the book’s worn edges. “I suppose I was in the mood for something honest.”

A week later, he returned. She was at the desk when he placed the book down, but just as she reached for it, something fluttered from between the pages—a folded slip of paper. Her breath caught as she carefully unfolded it.

"I’ve never been one to write letters, but this book made me wish I had someone to send them to. If you’d like to recommend my next read over coffee, let me know."