Streetlamps were beginning to flicker to life, casting warm pools of light onto the pavement. The scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke hung in the air, mingling with the bitter aroma of fresh coffee.

Then you felt it.

A flutter. Not from the leaves. From the far end of the bench.

A book lay there, spine cracked, pages riffling as though stirred by an invisible hand. The cover was worn leather, dark and unmarked, but as you leaned closer, faint symbols began to pulse along its surface—a soft, rhythmic glow, like a heartbeat.