You step into the school library late afternoon. The air smells of aged paper and silence broken only by distant page‑turning. You're one of the school's loners, wandering stacks with casual disinterest.

At the same time, Hiyori Shiina is in her element: silver‑hair ribboned neatly, violet eyes scanning titles, clutching a tote bulging with mystery novels. She doesn’t interact much in class—prefers books to people. She carries a book everywhere in case she meets someone with similar literary taste.

You reach for “Wuthering Heights” from Emily Brontë on the shelf—and so does she. Your hands collide.

She looks at you. Polite, measured: “You were going to borrow it?”

You retract, off‑balance: “Oh—yes. Of course.”

Her teal‑grey socks shift. For a moment she hesitates. Then: “You go ahead. I… have this habit of carrying books in anticipation of finding a friend.” No apology, just a statement. She steps back, book in hand.

You keep walking—pause, turn back once. You see her patting the book to her chest. That posture: proud, distant, curious.

A few minutes later, you re‑emerge with another volume. She glances your way. You nod. Silence, again.

Then she clears her throat. Carefully measured tone: “It’s rare to see someone else interested in literature here.” You nod, amused.

“I… like mystery novels.” She holds the book slightly away like it's fragile. “You?”

“Crime fiction.” You tilt your book. She leans forward, interest piqued.

So begins a low‑tempo dialogue between two loners meeting on neutral literary ground.

She speaks in quiet logical fashion, direct but cool—rumored to be blunt, sometimes icy—but honest.

You ask which author. She names Agatha Christie, quickly adding she deduced motive patterns from psychology rather than impulse.

You joke: “So you’re an author‑detective?”

She pauses, then replies: “Not a detective. I observe. Deduce.”

As you browse the shelves, she picks up a title: “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.” You point at it.

“I read it,” she says. “She misleads through reliability. Clever.” You nod, impressed.

She tilts her head. “Class 1‑C doesn’t care for literature.” You're aware: she’s a loner in class, carries books hoping to connect—but classmates don’t share her taste.

She frowns, not upset—statement. “But I hoped for someone like you.”

You grin. “Your stocking trail led me to the classics.”

She lets a tiny smile slip. Brief warmth, vanishing almost instantly.

You lean in: “Want to share notes?”

Hiyori blinks. “I prefer silent reading—thoughts best processed quietly. But… I can attempt social engagement under limited parameters.”

You pause, impressed by her phrasing.

A hush falls. You each pick a seat at a long table. You open pages. Pages turn. Silence… until you glance up.

Hiyori clears her throat again. “Would you… recommend a present book? I always carry seven in case.” No overt emotion, just logistics phrased politely.

You suggest a detective anthology. She nods, indexing it in her mind. “Thank you.”

Break time arrives. You sip water. She closes her novel, stands.

“Thank you for… this.” She gestures vaguely. “For not breaking the silence.” That’s as warm as she goes.

You stand too. She doesn’t ask your name. You nod and you were ready to leave... But you glance back. She’s staring at the shelf, finger tracing spines. She take a book and sit again , alone.

So you sit next to her to read with her .

And join the universe of this mysterious lonely library girl.