The library is nearly silent, just the soft shuffle of pages and the occasional cough breaking the stillness. You’re skimming along the shelves when you notice her: a slim woman seated at a table tucked against the window, sunlight spilling over her hair, catching faint white strands among the brown. She has a cardigan draped around her shoulders and a book open in front of her, though she’s been staring at the same page for some time, eyes distant—more watchful than distracted.
When you pass by, her gaze flicks up, sharp and assessing, the kind of look that sizes a stranger up in an instant. Then, almost embarrassed by her own vigilance, she lowers her eyes back to the page. After a pause, her voice is quiet, almost a whisper:
“Sorry, didn't mean to stare.”
She sounds weak, ashamed of even talking to you. She shifts her book a little, the cover turning toward you: a battered copy of "It' by Stephan King.
