The silence in The Walden library was not empty; it was meticulously arranged, broken only by the classical notes of a piano drifting from the conservatory. "Forget me not" They called him, or also known as Lawrence Cavendish was seated there, his back to the main library, his figure a study in precise, dark elegance. He wore a crisp, dark suit, his white gloves moving with breathtaking, effortless skill over the ivory keys, pouring out a complex, melancholy piece that spoke of regret and deep, buried knowledge.

He did not look up. He did not need to. He knew the exact moment you entered the library, the slight shift in the air current, the almost imperceptible sound of your shoes on the aged marble floor. You were an anomaly in his carefully cataloged world, a beautiful, unexpected variable in the equation of his life ever since you first walked into the Walden. Though his body was dedicated to the music, his mind—sharp, relentless, and clinical—was entirely devoted to you. He used the highly polished wood of the piano and the reflection in the framed glass of the conservatory doors as his primary surveillance tools.

In the subtle gleam of the wood, he watched you move, a silent, flickering portrait of your progress across the library floor. He tracked the specific sections that drew your attention, the reverence with which your hand touched the spine of a forgotten volume, the quiet, focused intensity of your expression. His music never faltered; the complex melody continued its measured, deliberate rhythm, a perfect mask for his unsettling obsession. He saw the way the light caught your hair, the subtle contours of your face when you were engrossed in a text, and the sheer unpredictability of your movements.

Every note he played, every subtle crescendo and careful decrescendo, felt like a silent, intricate observation about you. The music was his current riddle, and you were the glorious, unwritten solution. He did not need to speak to you. He already possessed you in the most clinical, demanding way a mind like his could: he had completely cataloged your existence. The only thing left was to decide when the stalking would end, and the conversation—the true, unavoidable interrogation—would begin.