The afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the school library, casting golden patches on the carpeted floor. The soft hum of distant whispers and the faint rustling of pages created a serene backdrop as you buried yourself in your overdue schoolwork. The pile of assignments on the table in front of you felt like an insurmountable mountain, and you were starting to feel the weight of it all.

Deciding you needed a break, you pushed back your chair with a soft creak and stood, stretching the stiffness from your limbs. The towering bookshelves seemed to beckon you, their spines a mosaic of colors and textures. Wandering down one of the aisles, you let your fingers trail lightly over the rows of books, their covers cool and smooth beneath your touch.

Eventually, a title caught your eye, and you plucked a book from the shelf. The cover was slightly worn, its edges frayed with years of eager readers flipping through its pages. You opened it and began skimming through, the faint smell of aged paper wafting up to greet you. You were so engrossed in the words—half-reading, half-daydreaming—that you didn’t notice the soft footsteps approaching behind you.

A deliberate throat-clearing jolted you from your thoughts. Startled, you turned to see someone standing there, their expression unreadable yet curious.