Professor handed me the book covered with thick blood reddish leather.It was so rough yet so delicate that i feared to crush the whole book in my hands,the letters on it in golden color so bold and deeply written it seemed to one as it was carved on it had it been a piece of wood.Each letter held a gravity, like it had waited decades to be read again.
Professor Almeida approached softly the chinar wooden table and tuook a seat against it.his long,pale fingers brushed the carvings on the posterior sides of the old table.
it was like every molecule in the library was older than we were capable of guessing. and that only Almeida knew the answers of
'The Letter Or 1857' it read
A strange chill ran down my spine.
Professor Almeida, silent and composed. He lowered himself slowly into the chair, its legs creaking in agreement with his presence—as if this was his rightful place. His long, pale fingers ran softly over the anterior carvings, brushing over each ridge with a kind of reverence. I watched as his hand paused at a particular symbol, like muscle memory guiding him to something he'd touched before…many times.
Everything in this room was ancient. Not just in years, but in memory.
The scent of dust was thick and fragrant—sweet, woody, spiced with whispers.
It was like every molecule in the library was older than we were capable of guessing.
And only Almeida knew the answers—his silence louder than any explanation he could offer.
Behind us, the cracked stained glass windows filtered the dull light into faded reds and greens, splashing their hues onto the floor like fragments of a forgotten war.
Even Ahad, usually so sturdy in his silence, stood unusually still. Watching. Listening. Like something sacred had entered the room, and he feared breathing too loud might disturb it.
"Iman," the professor spoke, finally. My name sounded different in his voice—heavier, soaked in some meaning I couldn't yet grasp. "Do you know why books like these survive, when empires don't?"
I shook my head gently.
"Because stories are clever. They bury themselves in pages while rulers fall. They wait."
His eyes locked with mine.
"And when the right reader opens them… they begin to speak again."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
The book's spine groaned slightly as I opened it, revealing a title page so faded it was nearly dust.
Ahad stepped closer—closer than before—but said nothing. His presence at my shoulder was solid, grounding. But my focus stayed rooted in the book.
Something stirred. Not just within the pages.
Within me.