Milo stepped in front of her and tilted his head, studying her from head to toe as though trying to solve a puzzle.
"...You're definitely not from Pendralice."
"Were you looking for work?"
She gave a small shake of her head.
"So... what brought you here?"
Milo looked at her expectantly, curiosity shining in his eyes.
Sikakama remained silent for a while.
Milo eventually turned away, clasping both hands behind his head.
"Well, if you don't want to tell me, that's fine."
"Though finding work around here will be pretty difficult if you're under the required age."
His words had barely faded when her quiet voice reached him.
"...I'm looking for something."
Milo stopped in his tracks.
He slowly turned back to face her.
"Looking for what?"
Their eyes met.
"...Answers."
"Answers about what?"
"...An old book."
Milo blinked, genuine surprise spreading across his face.
"...That's all?"
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"Most people come here looking for work."
"Or money."
"I've never met anyone who came all the way to Pendralice because of a book."
"It matters to me," she said, meeting his eyes without looking away.
The smile slowly faded from his face.
There was something in her voice.
The apple was still in Sikakama's hand.
"Thank you..."
"I have to go."
She turned, ready to continue on her own.
Milo watched her walk away.
Then his eyes widened slightly, as if a forgotten memory had suddenly surfaced.
"...Wait."
She stopped and glanced back.
He scratched the side of his nose awkwardly, as though trying to gather his thoughts.
"...I think I know someone."
She turned toward him.
"Who?"
"He's always buried beneath old books."
"The kind nobody else bothers reading."
"Sometimes people bring him strange things they can't understand."
He shrugged.
"I don't know how he does it..."
"...but he always seems to know where to begin."
For the first time since entering Pendralice, a faint spark lit Sikakama's eyes.
"Really?"
He glanced toward her.
"If anyone in Pendralice can help you understand an old book..."
"...it's Uncle Ben."
A faint spark of hope flickered across Sikakama's face.
Milo gave a short nod.
A grin spread across his face as he spun lightly on his heel and hurried ahead, beckoning for her to follow.
"Come on."
"It's not far."
They left the broad avenue behind.
With every turn, the crowds grew thinner.
The lively shopfronts gradually gave way to older buildings, their upper stories leaning toward one another until only a narrow strip of pale afternoon sky remained overhead.
Old wooden signs creaked softly in the breeze.
Few people passed through this part of the city.
At last, Milo slowed.
"This is it."
Sikakama followed his gaze.
The shop stood quietly between two taller buildings, almost hidden from anyone who wasn't looking for it.
Its weathered wooden façade had faded beneath countless winters.
Tall windows framed by dark oak revealed little beyond rows of books and scattered curiosities resting in the shadows.
Milo climbed the two worn stone steps.
As Sikakama followed, her eyes lingered on the doorway.
Bundles of dried rosemary and mugwort hung from the doorframe, swaying gently in the breeze.
Then Milo pushed open the old wooden door.
A tiny brass bell hanging above it gave a soft, familiar chime.
Warm air, carrying the scent of leather, ink, dried herbs, and ancient paper, settled around Sikakama.
For a moment...
Neither of them spoke.
Books lined every wall.
Towering shelves stretched almost to the ceiling, linked by narrow wooden walkways. Ladders rested against them, ready to reach the highest shelves.
Rolled maps protruded from cracked leather tubes.
Glass jars held faded feathers, yellowed scraps of parchment, strange stones, old coins, and objects whose purpose Sikakama couldn't even guess.
Every empty space seemed occupied by something old...
...and carefully preserved.
Milo looked toward the shelves.
"Uncle Ben?"
Silence.
He tried again, a little louder.
"Uncle Ben?"
A calm voice answered from somewhere beyond the shelves.
"Have you finished the book I lent you?"
Milo scratched the back of his neck.
"...Not yet."
The voice sighed.
"I suspected as much."
"You've been carrying the same book for three months."
"And somehow..."
"...you're still on the first few chapters."
Milo muttered under his breath.
"I'm busy."
"No."
The unseen voice replied calmly.
"You're avoiding it."
A few slow footsteps echoed between the shelves.
An elderly man emerged from a narrow aisle, an open book resting comfortably in one hand.
He was tall but remarkably thin, almost gaunt beneath a loose gray coat. Wisps of white hair framed his lined face, while a neatly trimmed beard rested upon his chin.
Round spectacles sat low on his nose.
He looked more like a scholar who had forgotten to leave his books...
...than someone who owned a shop.
He glanced briefly at Milo.
"You still believe reading is a luxury reserved for other people."
Milo folded his arms.
"I've survived this long without it."
"For now."
The old man closed his book.
His eyes finally shifted toward Sikakama.
He nudged the spectacles that had slipped down the bridge of his nose back into place with one finger.
"Well now..." he said in a soft, gentle voice.
"What do we have here?"
His pale eyes studied her for a moment.
"You've only been in Pendralice a short while."
Sikakama blinked.
"How do you know?"
"Pendralice leaves its soot on everyone who enters."
He looked back into her eyes.
"But it hasn't settled on you yet."
Milo smiled slightly.
"I told you he does that."
The old man ignored him.
His eyes remained on Sikakama.
Milo stepped forward.
"She needs help."
The old man answered calmly.
"Everyone who enters this room needs something."
He placed the book aside.
"The question is..."
"...why do you believe I am the person who can give it to you?"
Sikakama hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
"Milo told me."
The old man looked at the boy.
Milo immediately looked away.
"He said you understand old books."
"Things other people cannot understand."
She paused.
"And I need someone like that."
For a moment...
The old man said nothing.
"My knowledge is limited."
Sikakama frowned slightly.
"Limited?"
"Very."
He looked toward the shelves surrounding them.
"People often mistake having many books..."
"...for knowing everything inside them."
His fingers rested upon the cover of the book beside him.
"I only know what I have been allowed to learn."
He looked toward the countless books surrounding the room.
"Every age has things it remembers."
"And things it chooses to forget."
His voice remained calm.
"My knowledge reaches only as far as those memories were allowed to survive."
Milo frowned.
"I don't understand."
The old man smiled faintly.
"You don't need to."
Sikakama lowered her eyes.
For a moment...
A small disappointment appeared within her.
The old man smiled faintly.
"However..."
"Tell me what you need."
"Perhaps my limited knowledge will help you."
A gentler smile touched his face.
"But first..."
"You look as though you've had a long journey."
"A cup of tea will do you good."
Sikakama gave a small nod. A faint warmth crept across her face before she even realized it.
He disappeared through a narrow doorway behind the shelves.
A few moments later, he returned carrying a small iron kettle and three simple clay cups balanced on a wooden tray.
He set the tray upon a broad oak table worn smooth by countless years of use.
Ancient books lay stacked along one end beside loose sheets of parchment, while a single brass oil lamp cast a warm amber glow across the tabletop.
The old man settled into the chair at the head of the table.
Milo dropped into another as though he had done so a hundred times before.
Sikakama hesitated only briefly before taking the chair opposite them.
She wrapped both hands around the warm clay cup.
Steam curled gently upward.
She took a small sip.
The bitterness lingered only for a moment before giving way to a faint sweetness.
Warmth slowly spread through her body, easing the chill that had clung to her since entering the underground city.
The old man gently set his teacup back onto the table.
"Now..."
"How may I help you, little lady?"
Sikakama lowered her gaze to the cup in her hands. The amber tea lay perfectly still, its deep golden hue reflecting the warm glow of the oil lamp.
"...It concerns three sentences."
"Three sentences?" Uncle Ben repeated quietly.
As soon as she nodded, he reached inside his coat and withdrew a small leather-bound notebook, slightly smaller than the size of an average journal. He slid it across the table toward her, placing an ink pen beside it.
"Could you write them down for me?"
She gave a quiet nod, took the pen, and carefully began writing, her handwriting slightly uneven.
When she finished, the old man drew the notebook back toward himself. Adjusting his spectacles, he raised it slightly and silently read the three lines.
Meanwhile, Sikakama continued.
"When I first found them, I dismissed them as ordinary words."
"Yet they refused to leave my thoughts."
"No matter how much time passed..."
"...I always found myself returning to them."
"It feels as though I'm missing a single piece..."
"...one that makes everything else impossible to understand."
"And with what I know now..."
"...I don't think I can ever find it on my own."
His pale eyes lingered on the three sentences.
Once.
Then again.
His brows slowly knitted together.
"...Strange."
His fingers moved across the page, tracing each line as though trying to remember something buried deep within his memory.
"...How strange."
"These descriptions..."
"I've encountered something very much like them before."