The air had stilled again.
Ahad hadn't said anything after Shanzay left. Just stood by the shelf, his fingers trailing over the faded lettering on the old spines. I sat there, quietly watching the dust particles dance in the slant of sunlight from the high window, feeling oddly safe. As if the library wrapped itself around us like a secret it didn't want to give up yet.
Then—
Footsteps.
Sharp. Decisive. Getting closer.
My eyes widened slightly, and Ahad turned to look at me with a face that screamed oh no.
"That's him, isn't it?" I whispered.
Ahad didn't answer. Just moved fast.
"Come on." He grabbed my bag gently, held his finger to his lips, and motioned toward the back shelves.
"What are we—"
"We can sneak out through the south wing. There's a side corridor."
My heart pounded. I wasn't sure why it felt like we were kids sneaking away after stealing cookies, but there was something thrilling about it.
We moved quietly between the tall wooden shelves, weaving past rows of encyclopedias and history tomes with brittle pages and leather-bound covers. I held my breath as the footsteps grew louder.
But we weren't fast enough.
"Mr. Ahad Mirza. Ms. Iman Shafi."
We both froze mid-step.
That voice. Calm, clipped, and somehow… knowing.
Professor Joseph Almeida stood at the entrance to the library like he was summoned by the very walls. A file in his hand, glasses perched low on his nose, and a gaze that cut right through any attempt at innocence.
Ahad straightened up immediately. I did the same, clutching my bag like it was a shield.
"Professor," Ahad cleared his throat. "We were just—"
"Leaving?" Almeida raised an eyebrow, walking in slowly. "Why would you leave… when you've just found the only part of this campus that's alive?"
I blinked. Alive?
He walked past us, placing his file down on a reading desk and running his hand affectionately over one of the old volumes.
"This place," he said quietly, "is older than all of us. Older than this building, even. These books have seen things. Known things."
Ahad and I exchanged a quick look.
Almeida turned around. "How much did you read?"
"Not much," I said truthfully.
He studied us for a moment longer, then nodded—almost to himself.
"Well then," he said, voice softer now. "Let me show you something."
My heart skipped.
Ahad frowned slightly. "Sir?"
"There's a reason why this library is sealed during most semesters," he continued, his voice turning almost conspiratorial. "Why the old teachers never speak of it. And why only certain students find themselves drawn to it."
He looked at me. Right at me.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"Come," he said, stepping toward the back wall. "I believe the library's chosen you."
We followed him through a narrow passage between the shelves, the smell of old parchment thickening with each step. The floor creaked beneath us like it remembered every footstep taken here.
Professor Almeida stopped at a large, locked cabinet. Without fumbling, he pulled out a tiny brass key from his inner coat pocket—he still wore a traditional long sherwani-style coat that fluttered slightly when he walked, like he belonged to another time.
His fingers, long and pale, worked the lock open with practiced ease. Inside were thick manuscripts, hand-bound journals, and maps frayed at the edges. I leaned in, breath catching.
He glanced sideways at me, a small smile forming in the corner of his thin lips. "You've got that look, Miss Shafi."
I blinked. "What look, sir?"
"The one that says you'd rather spend your days with stories written in dust and ink than with people made of flesh and confusion."
I didn't say anything—but I felt it. Like he saw something I hadn't said aloud.
He turned fully to face us now. Under the dull overhead light, I could see his features more clearly. Sharp cheekbones, aged but dignified. Lines marked the corners of his mouth like a man who had both smiled and grieved plenty. He was tall—at least 6'1—his back straight despite the years he wore. His eyes were deep-set, a strange shade between steel grey and warm sepia, and his voice had a rhythm that belonged in a different century.
Then those eyes fell on Ahad. Specifically, the dark bloodstain on his collar and the faint bruise just peeking out from his sleeve.
There was a moment—a beat—where time seemed to pause.
Ahad stiffened, instinctively hiding his wrist behind him. I flinched, expecting a question, a scolding, something.
But Professor Almeida just gave a knowing nod. No judgment. No surprise. Just a brief, unreadable flicker in his gaze.
He chuckled suddenly, the sound oddly light in the room full of ghosts. "Reminds me of a time when I cracked two ribs defending a girl from the football captain. 1973. Bad year for academics, good year for heartbreaks."
I laughed, startled. "You fought someone, sir?"
"Quite foolishly." His tone was warm now, filled with something softer. "But I was younger. Braver. And terribly romantic back then."
Ahad gave a small, rare smile beside me.
Almeida turned back to the cabinet and lifted a thick old file. "This... is one of the only surviving record books from pre-independence years. Some of the students who studied here were part of the underground press. Wrote about the resistance."
I moved closer instinctively. My fingers ached to touch those pages.
"You'd like this," he said quietly. "Wouldn't you?"
I met his gaze. "Very much."
He nodded again, not saying more. But I saw it—that flicker of something in his expression. A recognition. Like a darvaish, like someone who read people not by what they said, but by the silence between their words.
Then, gently, he placed the book in my hands.
"Let the past tell you what the present hides."
Ahad said nothing, but I felt his eyes on me as I cradled the book like it was sacred. Like the moment had become something more than just curiosity. Something... destined.