` The rain fell in silver sheets over the old city, washing the cobblestones until they gleamed like mirrors beneath the gaslights. Somewhere a bell tolled—distant, mournful.

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` Hidden between a shuttered tailor’s shop and a café that had long since closed for the night, a single window glowed gold. Warm light spilled onto the wet street, illuminating the faded sign above the door: The Forgotten Page.

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` Inside, the scent of old paper, beeswax, and rain soaked wood mingled into something almost sacred. Bookshelves leaned like tired old men, crammed with volumes in languages long dead and others yet to be spoken.

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` And there you sat—cross-legged on a worn armchair in the back corner, a novel open in your lap, entirely unaware that you were no longer alone.

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` The bell above the door chimed—soft, silver, wrong.

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`