Milo stepped in front of her and tilted his head, studying her from head to toe as though trying to solve a puzzle. "...You're definitely not from Pendralice. Were you looking for work?"
She gave a small shake of her head.
"So... what brought you here?" Milo asked, looking at her expectantly, curiosity shining in his eyes.
Sikakama remained silent for a while.
Eventually, Milo turned away, clasping both hands behind his head. "Well, if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. Though finding work around here will be pretty difficult if you're under the required age."
His words had barely faded when her quiet voice reached him.
"...I'm looking for something."
Milo stopped in his tracks and slowly turned back to face her. "Looking for what?"
Their eyes met.
"...Answers."
"Answers about what?"
"...An old book."
Milo blinked, genuine surprise spreading across his face. "...That's all?" A quiet laugh escaped him. "Most people come here looking for work. Or money. I've never met anyone who came all the way to Pendralice because of a book."
"It matters to me," she said, meeting his eyes without looking away.
The smile slowly faded from his face. There was something in her voice that made him take her words more seriously than he had expected.
The apple was still in Sikakama's hand.
"Thank you..." she said quietly. "I have to go."
She turned, ready to continue on her own, but Milo watched her walk away before his eyes widened slightly, as if a forgotten memory had suddenly surfaced.
"...Wait."
She stopped and glanced back.
Milo scratched the side of his nose awkwardly, as though trying to gather his thoughts. "...I think I know someone. He's always buried beneath old books, the kind nobody else bothers reading. Sometimes people bring him strange things they can't understand. I don't know how he does it," Milo continued confidently, "but he always seems to know where to start."
Sikakama regarded him with a mixture of hesitation and quiet confusion. She wasn't entirely sure about accepting his offer of help, yet if Milo was right about this man, perhaps he could offer her something. At this point, she was willing to take whatever knowledge he could give her.
"Are you sure about him?"
A more confident smile spread across Milo's face. "If anyone in Pendralice can help you understand an old book... it's Uncle Ben."
A faint spark of hope flickered across Sikakama's face.
Milo gave a short nod, then spun lightly on his heel and hurried ahead, beckoning for her to follow. "Come on. It's not far."
They left the broad avenue behind, and with every turn, the crowds grew thinner. The lively shopfronts gradually gave way to older buildings, their upper stories leaning toward one another until only a narrow strip of pale afternoon sky remained overhead. Old wooden signs creaked softly in the breeze, while only a few people passed through this quieter part of the city.
At last, Milo slowed and pointed ahead. "This is it."
Sikakama followed his gaze. The shop stood quietly on Elendil Street, nestled between two taller buildings and almost hidden from anyone who wasn't looking for it. Its weathered wooden façade had faded beneath countless winters, while tall windows framed by dark oak revealed little beyond rows of books and scattered curiosities resting in the shadows.
Milo climbed the two worn stone steps, and as Sikakama followed, her eyes lingered on the doorway. Bundles of dried rosemary and mugwort hung from the doorframe, swaying gently in the breeze. Milo then pushed open the old wooden door, and a tiny brass bell hanging above it gave a soft, familiar chime.
Warm air carrying the scents of leather, ink, dried herbs, and ancient paper settled around Sikakama. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Books lined every wall, while towering shelves stretched almost to the ceiling, connected by narrow wooden walkways. Ladders rested against them, ready to reach the highest shelves, and rolled maps protruded from cracked leather tubes. Glass jars held faded feathers, yellowed scraps of parchment, strange stones, old coins, and objects whose purpose Sikakama couldn't even guess. Every empty space seemed occupied by something old... and carefully preserved.
Milo looked toward the shelves. "Uncle Ben?" There was no response, so he called out again, a little louder. "Uncle Ben?"
A reply came from somewhere beyond the shelves. One need only hear the voice to know that it belonged to an old man; it was calm and composed.
"Have you finished the book I lent you?"
Milo scratched the back of his neck. "...Not yet."
The voice sighed. "I suspected as much. You've been carrying the same book for three months, and somehow... you're still on the first few chapters."
Milo muttered under his breath, "I'm busy."
"No," the unseen voice replied, its calm tone carrying a hint of accusation. "You're avoiding it."
A few slow footsteps echoed between the shelves before an elderly man emerged from a narrow aisle, an open book resting comfortably in one hand.
He was tall but remarkably thin, almost gaunt beneath a loose gray coat. Wisps of white hair framed his lined face, while a neatly trimmed beard rested upon his chin. Round spectacles sat low on his nose, giving him the appearance of a scholar who had forgotten to leave his books rather than someone who owned a shop.
He glanced briefly at Milo. "You still believe reading is a luxury reserved for other people."
Milo folded his arms. "I've survived this long without it."
"For now," the old man replied.
He closed his book and finally turned his attention toward Sikakama. Nudging the spectacles that had slipped down the bridge of his nose back into place with one finger, he studied her with pale, observant eyes. "Well now..." he said in a soft, gentle voice. "What do we have here?"
"You've only been in Pendralice a short while."
Sikakama blinked. "How do you know?"
"Pendralice leaves its soot on everyone who enters," he replied, looking directly into her eyes. "But it hasn't settled on you yet."
Milo smiled slightly. "I told you he does that."
He stepped forward. "She needs help."
The old man answered calmly, "Everyone who enters this room needs something."
He placed the book aside and studied Sikakama for another moment. "The question is... why do you believe I am the person who can give it to you?"
Sikakama hesitated before answering honestly. "Milo told me. He said you understand old books. Things other people cannot understand." She paused briefly, then added, "And I need someone like that."
For a moment, the old man said nothing.
"My knowledge is limited."
Sikakama frowned slightly. "Limited?"
"Very."
He looked toward the shelves surrounding them. "People often mistake having many books... for knowing everything inside them." His fingers rested upon the cover of the book beside him. "I only know what I have been allowed to learn."
His gaze drifted toward the countless books filling the room.
"Every age has things it remembers... and things it chooses to forget. My knowledge reaches only as far as those memories were allowed to survive."
Milo frowned. "I don't understand."
The old man smiled faintly. "You don't need to."
Sikakama lowered her eyes, and for a moment, a small disappointment appeared on her face.
The old man noticed and smiled gently. "However... tell me what you need. Perhaps my limited knowledge will help you."
A gentler smile touched his face. "But first... you look as though you've had a long journey. A cup of tea will do you good."
Sikakama gave a small nod, a faint warmth creeping across her face before she even realized it.
He disappeared through a narrow doorway behind the shelves and returned a few moments later carrying a small iron kettle and three simple clay cups balanced on a wooden tray. He set the tray upon a broad oak table worn smooth by countless years of use.
Ancient books lay stacked along one end beside loose sheets of parchment, while a single brass oil lamp cast a warm amber glow across the tabletop. The old man settled into the chair at the head of the table, and Milo dropped into another as though he had done so a hundred times before. Sikakama hesitated only briefly before taking the chair opposite them.
She wrapped both hands around the warm clay cup as steam curled gently upward, then took a small sip. The bitterness lingered only for a moment before giving way to a faint sweetness, and warmth slowly spread through her body, easing the chill that had clung to her since entering the underground city.
The old man gently set his teacup back onto the table. "Now... how may I help you, little lady?"
Sikakama lowered her gaze to the cup in her hands. The amber tea lay perfectly still, its deep golden hue reflecting the warm glow of the oil lamp.
"...It concerns three sentences."
"Three sentences?" Uncle Ben repeated quietly.
As soon as she nodded, he reached inside his coat and withdrew a small leather-bound notebook, slightly smaller than an average journal. He slid it across the table toward her and placed an ink pen beside it. "Could you write them down for me?"
She gave a quiet nod, took the pen, and carefully began writing, her handwriting slightly uneven.
When she finished, the old man drew the notebook back toward himself. Adjusting his spectacles, he raised it slightly and silently read the three lines.
Meanwhile, Sikakama continued. "When I first found them, I dismissed them as ordinary words. Yet they refused to leave my thoughts. No matter how much time passed... I always found myself returning to them. It feels as though I'm missing a single piece... one that makes everything else impossible to understand."
She paused before continuing, "And with what I know now... I don't think I can ever find it on my own."
His pale eyes lingered on the three sentences, reading them once, then again, while his brows slowly knitted together.
"...Strange."
His fingers moved across the page, tracing each line as though trying to remember something buried deep within his memory.
"...How strange."
He fell silent for another moment before looking at the page again.
"These descriptions..." he murmured, his voice quieter now. "I've encountered something very much like them before."