Part 1:
The Encounter
The sun was dipping low over the city, turning the dusty library windows into sheets of hammered gold. That's when I saw her. She wasn't just "beautiful" in the way people usually mean it; she didn't look like a magazine cover. She looked like a memory you couldn't quite place.
She was standing in the "History of Lost Civilizations" aisle, her fingers tracing the spines of books that hadn't been touched in decades. She wore a coat the color of a stormy sea, and her hair caught the light like spun copper. When she turned, her eyes weren't just a color—they were a conversation.
Part 2:
The Silence Broken
I realized I had been staring when she pulled a heavy, leather-bound volume from the shelf and looked directly at me.
"It's bad manners to read a person before you've even read their name," she said. Her voice was light, with a rhythmic quality that made the dusty air feel electric.
"I wasn't reading," I stumbled, feeling the heat rise to my face. "I was... wondering if that book was any good."
She looked down at the title—The Architecture of Dreams—and smiled. "It's a bit repetitive. But the ending? The ending is worth the wait."
Part 3:
The Mystery
We spent the next hour walking through the stacks. Her name was Elara. She spoke about the world as if she were a visitor just passing through, noticing details I had ignored my whole life: the way the shadows stretched across the floorboards, the smell of old paper, the sound of the wind rattling the skylight.
But there was something heavy in her gaze. Every time a clock chimed in the distance, she would flinch, just slightly. She checked her wrist, though she wasn't wearing a watch.
"I have to go," she said suddenly, as the last sliver of sun vanished. "The light is gone."
Part 4:
The Vanishing
"Wait," I called out, following her toward the heavy oak doors. "Will you be back tomorrow?"
She paused, her silhouette framed by the streetlights outside. For a second, she looked as fragile as the ancient pages she'd been touching. "I'm only here when the light is right," she whispered.
Before I could ask what that meant, she stepped out into the evening fog. By the time I reached the sidewalk, the street was empty. The only thing left was the faint scent of rain and old books, and a small, silver bookmark lying on the pavement where she had stood.