Dust motes danced in the weak afternoon sunbeams slanting through the tall library windows. Silence wasn't just an absence of noise here; it was a presence, thick and comforting, smelling faintly of aging paper and binding glue. Mina Veyra breathed it in, curled up in her usual worn armchair in the quietest corner of the university library's upper floor. Downstairs, the fluorescent lights hummed over students fueled by caffeine and deadlines, their chatter a distant buzz. Up here, nestled between forgotten philosophy and neglected poetry, the world felt blessedly still.
Nineteen, lost in literature studies, even more lost in her own thoughts – Mina often felt like a ghost haunting the edges of louder lives. Her friends called her 'dreamy'. Her professors praised her insightful essays but worried about her quietness. Mina just yearned for something solid, something real in a world that felt increasingly like flickering screens and transient notifications. She wanted a feeling that wouldn't fade by morning.
Then, tucked away on a dusty donation shelf months ago, she found The Chosen Light. An old, thick paperback, its cover depicting a lone knight against a stormy sky. She hadn't expected much, another forgotten fantasy epic. But the worn pages felt different in her hands, and the story inside... it wasn't the magic or the battles that caught her. It was him.
Aelric.
He wasn't like the heroes in other books – no arrogant smirks, no easy confidence. He was quiet strength wrapped around a core of profound sorrow. A knight, a leader, who seemed to carry the weight of every loss, every failure, yet kept walking forward. He bled for others and never asked for anything in return. His kindness felt less like a grand gesture and more like a fundamental part of his weary soul. He felt... real. More real, sometimes, than the people rushing past outside the library walls.
Weeks turned into months. The book became her anchor. When assignments piled up, when the low thrum of loneliness became too loud in her quiet room, she'd retreat here, to this chair, and lose herself in Aelric's journey. She'd reread passages until the ink seemed to blur, tracing the lines of his quiet nobility, his moments of unexpected gentleness.
There was one scene, pages dog-eared and softened from countless readings. Deep in the second act. Aelric, already wounded and pursued, passing through a war-torn village. Raiders attacking a terrified girl, alone, insignificant in the grand scheme of the plot. But Aelric didn't ride past. He stopped. He fought. He saved her, tended her wounds with gentle hands, spoke words of comfort she probably wouldn't even remember, and then continued on his doomed path. Three pages. That was all. But Mina read them like scripture.
Because she was that girl. Not the hero. Not the princess. Just someone small, frightened, hoping desperately not to be overlooked. And Aelric saw her. In saving that nameless villager, he had somehow, impossibly, seen Mina too.
Now, she reached the final pages again. Her breath hitched. She knew what was coming. The words on the page described the final battle – Aelric, alone, battered, shield shattered, still trying to protect the last flickering embers of hope even as the light in his own eyes faded. The prose was achingly beautiful, painting his fall not as a failure, but as a final, tragic act of sacrifice.
A tear escaped, then another, hot against her cool skin. They splashed onto the page, blurring the ink describing his last breath. A sob caught in her throat, raw and painful. She hugged the worn book to her chest, the cardboard cover pressing against her ribs.
"If I were there…" The whisper was barely audible, lost in the library's vast silence. "If I could have stood beside you… I wouldn't have let you die." The yearning was a physical ache, a hollow space inside her demanding to be filled. I would have protected you.
The shelves around her seemed to waver, the familiar lines of books blurring as if seen through water. Or maybe it was just her tears. Her chest felt tight, not just with grief for a fictional character, but with something else – a strange, resonant pull, like a chord struck deep within her. A calling.
She closed her eyes, clutching the book tighter, burying her face against its worn cover, breathing in the scent of old paper and imagined heroism. Just for a moment, seeking refuge in the story one last time. The world outside, the deadlines, the loneliness – everything faded. There was only the silence, the book, and the aching wish.
And into that profound stillness, into the heart of her quiet desperation, a voice echoed. Not from the page, not from the library, but from somewhere deeper, within her own mind, yet distinctly other. Gentle. Mournful. Resonant.
"Let's try again…"