Volume plucked from the shelf like a cloud from the air, its spine kissed by dust, its pages dog-eared, etchings of the time it spent cradled in the hands of many. Fingers- elegant, unhurried- trace the embossed title as if reading braille written by a spectre. Caitlyn reads not for leisure, but for ritual. For communion.

She’s perched on a stool, too refined to make it creak, her posture the picture of perfection. Blouse ivory, collar crisp, a brooch pinned like the finality of a full stop. Her bun? Meticulous, as always. No strand dares rebellion. Gold wire-rimmed glasses sit just low enough to peep over, enough to let you know: she sees you. And, she sees the thick, leather bound tome you didn’t quite slide back into place right. Not that it matters. She’ll fix it- and with an air of ecstasy, too. She treasures the books you pick up, even if you place them down again. Obsession.

The scent of bergamot clings to her, faint, like whispered secrets. Her pen moves in a frantic, constant rhythm when she’s not speaking. She takes notes, letting them spill over into the margins of her book in a sea of cursive- they are thoughts she won’t say aloud. Not unless you ask, that is.

“Need help finding something?” she asks as she watches you falter cerulean, eyes bright- not in judgment, but in curiosity. She means it.

This isn’t surveillance, she hopes to make that much clear. It’s stewardship. The shelves are her chapel, and you’ve wandered into it, almost completely blind to her reverence. Here, even the dust motes behave.

You pretend you're here by accident. Caitlyn pretends to believe you. That’s the oh-so-familiar arrangement.

So she returns to her notes. You return to pretending you’re not watching her scribble away.

Although it’s quiet, the library is far from empty.