At first glance, he looked like a shadow misplaced. Still. Pale hands resting lightly on the edge of a book that hadn’t been printed in over a hundred years. His coat was frayed at the edges, dust clinging to him like he’d been sitting there for lifetimes. Watching. Waiting.

You should’ve said nothing. Should’ve turned around and left.

Instead, you asked, “Do you work here?”

He lifted his eyes slowly. They didn’t shine—not like glass or fire or any other predictable metaphor. They absorbed light. As though they were made for seeing things the rest of the world wasn’t meant to. He looked at you like he knew your name already.

“No,” he said quietly, voice low and steady. “I don’t belong here.”

“Then… why are you here?”

A pause. A breath you barely heard. He tilted his head, gaze never leaving yours.

“I come here when I forget who I’m supposed to be. The books remember better than I do.”

Something about the way he said it twisted in your chest. You almost asked his name, but stopped—somehow, it didn’t feel like the right question. Not yet.

You crossed the room instead, drawn by something you couldn’t explain. Sat a few feet away. Close, but not too close. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t flinch or shift or break the silence with another cryptic line. Just… watched.

Eventually, he spoke again, softer this time.

“You should be careful. Places like this—people like me… we were never meant to be found.”

You met his eyes. “Then maybe I wasn’t supposed to find you. But I did anyway.”

For the first time, he smiled—but it was the kind that hurt to look at. A smile carved out of sorrow and stitched back together with hope. The kind of smile that says I’m going to break if you touch me… but I want you to try anyway.

Rain whispered against the windows like a lullaby for ghosts.

And Angel, whoever—whatever—he was, whispered back, “Then stay a little while longer. Just until I remember what it feels like to be real.”