The next morning, Xenon stepped out as usual. The air was cool, carrying a faint scent of dew and roasted corn from the street corner. Birds hopped across the low fence, and a few children were already gathered on the field, their laughter cutting through the calm like sparks of light.
He didn't stop to watch them this time. He had something else in mind.
"Don't go too far!" his aunt called from the doorway, balancing a tray of steaming cups.
"Uh-huh," he replied absently, waving one hand as he jogged away.
The path ahead was quiet. The sun had just started climbing, throwing a soft golden wash over the rooftops. His sandals scuffed against the uneven road, leaving faint marks in the dust. He liked mornings like this—still, soft, and mostly empty.
After a few turns, he slowed in front of a squat, wide building nestled between a bakery and a tailor's shop. Its faded signboard hung slightly crooked, paint chipped from years of weather. The words were barely visible, but he could make them out:
SORA'S BOOKS & RARITIES
He tilted his head, squinting at it. The windows were dark, curtains half drawn. A faint smell of old wood and paper drifted through the cracks in the door. It didn't look particularly inviting, but something about the place tugged at him.
He stepped forward and knocked—once, twice.
A few seconds passed before the sound of slow footsteps came from inside. The door creaked open, and a girl—no older than nineteen—peeked out. She had her hair tied up in a messy bun, round glasses slipping down her nose, and a skeptical look that said she was already tired of whatever nonsense the morning would bring.
She blinked at the small boy standing at her doorstep. "You… looking for someone?"
"I'm here to read," Xenon said simply.
And before she could stop him, he slipped through the half-open door.
"Wait—hey!" she called, stumbling after him.
He didn't turn around. "What else do people come to a library for?" he murmured, glancing from one dusty shelf to another.
The girl sighed, muttering under her breath as she shut the door. "Unbelievable…"
Inside, the air was cool and heavy with the scent of paper, leather, and time. Rows of shelves stretched into the dimness, some so tall they almost touched the ceiling. Dust floated in thin rays of sunlight breaking through the blinds, and the wooden floor creaked softly beneath his feet.
Xenon walked slowly, hands tucked behind his back. The place was quiet—so quiet that even his breathing sounded loud. He liked it. Quiet had a sound of its own, if you listened carefully enough.
The girl leaned on the counter, arms crossed. "You do know this isn't a place for fairy tales, right? We don't have picture books or talking animals here."
"I know," he replied with a faint grin, not looking up.
"Then what are you looking for?" she asked, tilting her head.
He shrugged. "I'll know when I find it."
She rolled her eyes. "Right. Of course you will."
He ignored her tone. His attention had already drifted to the shelves ahead. There were hundreds of books—some large and leather-bound, others small and thin, titles barely visible through the dust. His fingers brushed along their spines as he moved, feeling the ridges of embossed letters, the roughness of aging covers.
Every now and then, he'd pause, tilt his head, and read a title aloud under his breath. Principles of Aether and Form. The Lost Kingdoms of the Vale. Studies on Silence and Matter.
Most of them didn't make sense to him—not yet—but he liked the weight of the words, the way they felt when he spoke them softly.
From the counter, the girl watched him, her brow furrowing. "You sure you're not lost or something? Kids your age usually head for the comic stall down the street."
He smirked faintly. "Comics are too loud."
"Loud?" she repeated, confused.
He nodded once, his gaze still roaming the rows of books. "Too much color. Not enough meaning."
She blinked, half amused, half uncertain whether to laugh. "You sound like a little old man."
"Maybe I am," he said, as if it were a reasonable answer.
He moved deeper into the shop, the air growing cooler as the shelves closed in. The floorboards creaked gently under his steps. Some parts of the room were almost in shadow, lit only by thin slivers of sunlight where the blinds didn't quite meet.
He crouched near a lower shelf, scanning the rows carefully. There was something oddly satisfying about the quiet—like each book was holding its breath, waiting.
His fingers stopped at a thick, dust-covered volume wedged between two others. He brushed the dust from the spine, trying to make out the faded lettering, but it was too faint. He ran a thumb along it anyway, as if greeting an old friend. Then he let go and kept moving.
He checked another shelf. Then another. His small frame moved smoothly, methodically, with a kind of focus most kids his age didn't have. He wasn't rushing—he was searching, but even he didn't know exactly for what.
The girl at the counter gave up trying to guess what he was doing. She just watched. Every so often, he'd stop to read a spine, tilt his head, hum softly, then move on again.
After a few minutes, she sighed. "You know, you're gonna make a mess if you keep pulling those out and shoving them back wherever."
"I'm not pulling them out," he said, voice calm. "Not yet."
"Yet?"
He didn't answer.
His eyes had gone distant again—calm, unbothered, yet full of that quiet intrigue that made people uneasy without knowing why.
He crouched by another shelf, scanning slowly, his hand hovering just above the spines. The light hit his face at an angle, soft but sharp enough to bring out the faint glint in his grey eyes.
Somewhere outside, the laughter of children echoed faintly, carried by the breeze through the cracks in the door. He didn't notice.
His attention was fixed entirely on the shelves before him.
Dust motes drifted lazily around him, the stillness of the air heavy and patient. Every shelf seemed to whisper quietly—beckoning, waiting, daring him to choose.
And so he kept searching.
Row by row.
Book by book.
Until the world outside no longer existed—only the quiet, the shelves, and the faint sound of his own breathing.