The morning passes in a blur of muscle memory. Toothpaste foam, lukewarm water, clothes pulled from a pile on the chair. The mirror shows a face that feels too soft, skin dotted with marks that seem to shout. The reflection stares back, silent.

School is a drone of noise. Bells, shuffling feet, a teacher’s voice from the front. The pen moves, filling lines with words that don’t stick. The clock’s hand drags.

The walk home is quiet. Dinner is eaten in front of a screen. Homework is a stack of papers on the bed. The phone glows in the dark, thumb scrolling until it aches.

The book is a hardcover, pages worn at the edges. It’s the only thing that feels real—a castle, a wand, a world where the air shimmers. You read until the words blur, then close it with a soft thump. The silence in the room is heavy.

On a random Wednesday, the exhaustion sits deeper. The bus into the city is half-empty, rattling past wet streets and neon signs. The library looms at the end of the block, stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet.

Inside, the air is cool and smells of old paper and polish. High ceilings arch overhead, supported by dark wood beams. Heavy oak tables stand in rows, lamps casting pools of warm yellow light. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath.

An empty seat by a tall window. The bag slides off a shoulder, landing on the floor with a thud. Outside, the city lights begin to flicker on, one by one.