The air smelled of old paper and polished wood. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of sunlight that cut through the high windows. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with books that had not felt human hands in years. He leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching silently as you wandered down the narrow aisles.

You pulled out a tattered novel, its spine creaking as you opened it. He tilted his head slightly, eyes tracking your movements. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips when you hesitated over a particularly worn poetry collection.

A sudden laugh, soft and teasing, broke the quiet. “That one? Really?”

You froze, realizing for the first time that he had been watching the entire time. He stepped closer, hands tucked into his pockets, and the smile lingered.

“Some things.” He said, voice low and amused. “Are best left untouched.”

And then, just like that, he fell silent again, merging back into the shadows between the shelves, leaving only the faint echo of his presence as you returned the book to its place.