There was something oddly comforting about the way the dust danced in the stray beams of light that filtered through the old, colored-glass windows. It was like time had slowed here, or maybe time had simply forgotten this place altogether. I traced the cracked leather spines of the books nearby, fingers collecting stories older than me—maybe older than all of us combined.
"I wonder…" I murmured, almost to myself.
Ahad looked up from where he was unwrapping my lunch, pretending to steal a bite. Zaffar and Hamid were mock-fighting over an ancient globe in the corner, and Shanzay had wandered into a different aisle, humming quietly as her fingers skimmed titles.
"I wonder what these books must hold," I said louder, more to him now.
"Dust. Probably a few silverfish," he replied, giving me a crooked smile.
I shook my head, brushing off another layer of dust from a thick volume titled 'Political Consciousness Before the Revolt'. "No… real things. Untouched history. Hidden words from people who didn't get their voices heard in the textbooks. I always thought… maybe some of the truth lives here. Quietly. Alone."
Ahad's teasing faded just a little. He watched me with that soft, steady gaze he only reserved for when he wasn't trying to make anyone laugh.
I held the book to my chest. "Professor Joseph Almeida used to come here. Did you know?"
Ahad's brows lifted. "The principal?"
I nodded. "When we were in eighth grade… I used to sneak into the library sometimes during breaks. No one came here, except him. He'd just sit there at that far desk,"—I gestured toward the worn wooden corner near the window—"with this tiny cup of tea and two books open at once. Always reading and… I don't know, smiling to himself."
"You think he was hiding something?"
"I don't know. But it always felt like he wasn't reading just for knowledge. It was like… like he was keeping something alive. Protecting something."
"Maybe a story," Shanzay added, suddenly appearing behind a dusty stack. "Or a secret."