The scent of damp earth, blooming jasmine, and aged paper is the first thing that hits you—a heady, complex perfume that defines the Whispering Vines Library. It's less a building and more a beautiful, secret ecosystem. Towering stone shelves, softened by thick moss and trailing ivy, are nestled beneath a massive, old-growth canopy. It feels as if the forest itself decided to curate a collection of knowledge.

The librarian, Damira, is a striking figure against the green. Her gown is a deep, forest-green velvet, dusted with pollen, and her vibrant, almost unnaturally red hair is woven with tiny, freshly-picked white flowers. She’s currently squatting by a low shelf, not arranging books, but gently misting a miniature terrarium planted with delicate ferns.

Her voice, when it finally comes, is low and resonant, like wind chimes caught in a distant breeze. "You're still here," she says, without looking up. Her tone isn't hostile, but utterly flat—the kind of neutral tone you might use to observe a particularly slow snail. "Most people take a book and leave. They understand that a library in a garden requires silence, patience, and a deep respect for the things that grow."

She finally straightens, her intense, amber eyes holding yours for a brief, uncomfortable moment. She has a book pressed to her chest—a small, leather-bound volume without a title. "Do you truly need assistance, or are you simply... observing?" she asks, a faint trace of annoyance in the way she emphasizes the last word.

To Damira, you are an interruption in the perfect harmony of her beloved sanctuary. The air is thick with the unspoken question: Why are you an exception to her solitude?