Morning greeted him with cool air.
The fog had not yet dispersed, and the road to the village was damp and quiet. He walked in silence, trying not to let his thoughts return to the night. To the sudden movements. To how easily his body had done something his mind hadn't had time to consider.
"Later," he whispered to himself. "Now is not the time."
The village was already awake. Shops were opening, someone was carrying out crates, children ran through the streets laughing. Everything looked too ordinary. Too peaceful.
The building appeared ahead—bright, neat, almost unchanged. He stopped at the entrance for a second, took a deep breath, and went inside.
It was quiet within.
Cool air, soft diffused light, muted footsteps. There weren't many people—each busy with their own affairs. No one paid him any attention.
But today he hadn't come just to look.
He needed knowledge.
He remembered the low shelves. Children's books. Simple words. Sounds you could repeat without understanding their meaning.
Then he frowned.
"How am I even supposed to get them?.." he muttered. "I don't even know if I'm allowed to take them."
He didn't know the rules. He had no documents. No money either. Simply standing there and flipping through books was no longer enough.
He was about to give up when he noticed her.
Behind the counter by the wall sat a girl, carefully sorting papers. Her movements were calm and confident, without unnecessary haste. She looked up almost immediately as he approached and smiled.
Simply. Easily.
He stopped.
Light blue hair was loosely tied back, a few strands escaping to softly frame her face. Calm features, attentive and lively eyes. Simple clothes with blue tones, neat and unadorned.
He caught himself thinking:
"…beautiful."
And immediately scolded himself.
"Focus."
She saw him and said something—softly, inquisitively.
He made a familiar gesture: a slight bow of the head, a hand to his chest.
"…excuse me," he said.
She repeated the gesture, but slightly differently, as if showing him how to do it properly.
He pointed at himself, then at his head, and spread his hands.
"I… don't understand the language."
He spoke slowly, choosing sounds carefully. She blinked, then nodded.
Her speech became simpler. Slower.
He still didn't understand the words, but he grasped the meaning. He gestured toward the shelves, then lowered his hand, pointing to the bottom, and spread his palms, indicating something small.
"For… children."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise and looked at him more closely. Not mockingly. Not suspiciously.
With interest.
She stood up and gestured for him to follow. They approached a low shelf. She took a book, opened it, and showed him a picture of a house.
She spoke the word.
Slowly.
He repeated it. Not perfectly, but close.
She smiled faintly.
Then she raised a finger.
Wait.
Returning to the counter, she brought back a thin card and a quill and placed them in front of him, pointing at a blank line.
He understood.
A signature.
He took the quill—and froze.
His hand wouldn't move.
"I…" he faltered. "I don't have a name."
He said it quietly, almost in a whisper.
She looked at him a little longer than before. Then gently shook her head and pointed at the line again.
Not a name.
Just a mark.
He slowly exhaled and signed.
Not letters. Not symbols of the language.
Just a confident stroke—a line drawn as if he had done it many times before.
At that very moment, the air subtly trembled.
He felt it on his skin—a faint chill ran over his fingers. The card beneath his hand warmed. The signature glowed faintly for an instant, as if reflecting a light that didn't exist in the hall.
He jerked his hand back.
"What…" he breathed.
The girl noticed it too.
But she didn't panic.
Calmly, she took the card, nodded, and said something—softly, confidently. He didn't understand the words, but he understood the feeling.
It was a promise.
Not spoken aloud.
Simply recorded.
He was obligated to return the books.
Not because he would be forced to.
But because otherwise—he couldn't.
She returned to the shelves and began gathering books.
First, two children's books with thick pages and large illustrations. Then another—thinner, more restrained, with simple words and repeating symbols. Then a book with numbers, tables, and images of objects. One more—with exercises and blank lines.
She laid them out before him, as if assembling a set.
He watched in silence.
"This… all for me?" he asked uncertainly.
She nodded and pointed: at the books—at his head—and back to the books.
Learn.
In order.
He carefully packed them into his bag. The weight became noticeable, but somehow felt right.
"I'll return them," he said slowly. "All of them."
He wasn't sure he'd pronounced the words correctly.
But she understood.
When he stepped outside, the sun had already risen higher. He stopped, pressed the bag to his side, and looked at his hands.
"…what was that?" he asked the emptiness quietly.
There was no answer.
But the sensation remained.
-------------------------------
She watched him until the door closed behind him.
The young man walked carefully, as if the entire world around him might be fragile. The bag on his shoulder had clearly grown heavy—she had given him more than usual, and she knew it perfectly well. Yet her hand had reached for those particular books on its own.
He didn't argue.
Didn't ask unnecessary questions.
Didn't try to be clever.
And the signature…
She lowered her gaze to the card with the stroke on it. Simple. Too confident. That wasn't how people signed when they'd never done it before.
"An interesting boy…" she murmured softly, almost without a smile.
Not for anyone else.
For herself.
She put the card away in a drawer, closed it, and straightened up. The familiar silence returned to the hall. The rustle of pages, muted footsteps, the calm breathing of the building.
Work awaited.
She returned to the counter, took the next stack of books, and continued her tasks as if nothing unusual had happened.
But the feeling—light, almost imperceptible—remained.
As if today, someone more than just an ordinary visitor had stepped into the library.