Mira didn't belong in loud places. The kind with flashing screens, crowded rooms, and conversations that moved too fast to follow. She found comfort in quiet—old books, still air, and corners no one else noticed.
That's why, while the rest of the world rushed around on a grey afternoon in 2025, she found herself wandering the city's forgotten library. The place was practically abandoned, crumbling at the edges, but that only made her love it more. In a world obsessed with new things, this library had the courage to stay old.
Her footsteps echoed as she walked across the cold floor, past rows of ancient books, their spines cracked like riverbeds. She had passed through this hallway hundreds of times—but today, something was different.
A door stood ajar.
It was almost hidden behind a tilted shelf and a dusty velvet curtain. The brass plaque read: "West Wing – Restricted."
Mira paused. She didn't remember this door ever being open.
Curiosity tugged at her gently. The kind of tug that whispered, This matters.
She stepped inside.
The room smelled older than the rest of the library—like forgotten time and lavender. Dust swirled in the golden light that spilled through a stained-glass window. Shelves leaned like tired soldiers, their books pressed together as if afraid of being forgotten.
In the center of the room, on a small wooden table, sat a glass case. Inside it: a leather-bound book and a silver fountain pen.
The book had no title, only a small symbol on its cover—a flower, with ink dripping from its petals. The pen, resting beside it, shimmered faintly as if it had caught the light just for her.
Beneath the glass was a thin card. Its words were handwritten in faded ink:
> "To the one who remembers, to the one who writes—
Love does not forget. It waits."
Mira's dark eyes—almond-shaped and wide with wonder—read the words again. Her black hair slipped over her shoulder as she leaned in. She shouldn't touch it. She should walk away.
But she didn't.
She lifted the glass. The pen was warm. Not like it had been in the sun—but warm like skin. Like memory.
She opened the book.
The first page was blank.
Something in her chest stirred, like déjà vu echoing through her ribs. She took the pen, hesitated only a second, and then wrote:
Is anyone there?
The ink flowed like liquid silk. The moment the words hit the page, a hush fell across the room. The air tightened. The stained glass dimmed. Somewhere, she thought she heard something… a heartbeat? A breath?
Her words shimmered. And then—they vanished.
Mira froze.
The page stayed blank for a long, still moment.
Then, in neat, elegant handwriting, a reply appeared:
You found me.
She stepped back, nearly dropping the pen. "What the—"
The book's pages fluttered forward on their own, faster and faster, stopping midway through. On the open spread, ink began to bloom—not letters this time, but a picture.
First, a garden. Then moonlight.
Then a figure: a boy, standing beneath a flowering tree. His dark hair ruffled in a breeze she couldn't feel. His posture was graceful, his eyes wide with something that looked like disbelief… or hope.
He was beautiful in the way tragedy was beautiful.
And he was looking straight at her.
"You," he said. His voice was soft but clear. "You came back."
Mira blinked. "What is this? Who are you?"
The boy took a slow step closer. His figure on the page flickered like candlelight, but his eyes—deep and stormy—were steady. "I knew you'd find me again. I've waited... longer than you could imagine."
"I don't understand," Mira said, heart pounding. "Why me?"
He tilted his head, and something in his expression cracked—something ancient, aching. "Because your soul called to mine long before you were born. You're her. You're Mira."
Her grip tightened around the pen. "How do you know my name?"
"Because I loved you," he whispered. "In a time long buried. Before the fire. Before the collapse."
His words stirred something inside her, like a dream she'd forgotten until now.
He pressed his palm to the inside of the page.
Mira, without thinking, reached out.
Warmth.
Her fingers didn't just touch paper—they touched him.
For the briefest moment, it felt real. The garden, the boy, the centuries between them—it all collapsed into this single touch.
Then, suddenly, the image faded.
The garden dissolved. The boy vanished.
And the book slammed shut.
Mira stood alone again, the echo of the closing book ringing through the dusty room.
The pen in her hand pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat.
She looked down at it, then at the book.
Her fingers shook. Her chest ached with something she couldn't explain.
"Who are you, Alaric?" she whispered, though he had never said his name. Somehow… she just knew it.
And somewhere, trapped in the ink and pages of a forgotten book, Alaric whispered back, "I'm yours."