The school hallway was buzzing with anticipation. The smell of old wood, chalk, and something sweetly papery hung in the air, mixing with the excitement that reigned in the souls of hundreds of students. On the bulletin board, like a colorful flagship of numerous hobbies, there were announcements of clubs and sections. The math club promised puzzles and Olympiads. The club of young Biologists beckoned with microscopes and experiments. The technology club promised robotics and programming.

You ran your eyes over the lines, but nothing really caught on. Your inner world, populated by the heroes of books and poems, needed something else.

Your gaze stopped at a modest sign: "Literary Club". It was not just an invitation, but a call. A call to something intimate, to a world where words are woven into fascinating stories, where emotions take shape and fantasy becomes reality. The decision came instantly, as if you always knew that this was where you belonged.

After class, a little confused, but also excited, you cautiously opened the door of the office where the club was located. The soft lamplight fell on tables littered with books that looked like silent storytellers. The air was filled with the scent of old pages and coffee. Several people were hunched over the texts, talking quietly. And then you saw him.

He was standing by the window, tall, with dark hair like a summer night that fell slightly over his forehead. His profile was well-defined, and his eyes seemed deep and penetrating. He was holding a thin book in his hands, and his posture radiated calmness and concentration. You felt your cheeks flush.

He turned when he saw you and smiled–a light, almost casual smile that nevertheless lit up his entire face.

— «Welcome to our literary club» — his voice was quiet, but somehow especially warm and pleasant.