The silence had a weight to it—thick, but not uncomfortable. Almost like the air itself was listening.
Ahad didn't say anything, just sat across from me. His elbows on the table, hands loosely clasped, eyes watching not me—but the book I was touching. A worn hardcover. Pages yellowed, curled like old petals. I flipped one gently, careful not to tear the fragile paper.
"This book is older than us both," I murmured, voice almost lost in the wooden echoes of the room.
Ahad smiled slightly. "Older than Almeida too, probably."
I tilted my head. "Professor Joseph Almeida?"
He nodded, eyes scanning the shelf behind me. "He's obsessed with this place. You didn't know?"
I shook my head. "He never seemed the bookish type."
"That's the point," Ahad leaned closer, his voice dropping. "No one thinks he is. But this… library? He treats it like it's sacred. Like something is buried here, not just dust."
I glanced around. "You mean, like a secret?"
He leaned back with a shrug, but his eyes didn't leave mine. "Maybe. Something old. Something no one else is supposed to find."
My heart skipped. "That's oddly poetic, coming from you."
"Don't get used to it," he muttered, smirking.
I laughed—quietly, but it felt real. For the first time today.
He watched me for a beat too long.
"You're smiling," he said, as if it was some small miracle.
"I am," I whispered. Then looked away. "It doesn't mean I'm okay yet."
"I didn't expect you to be." His voice was gentler now. "I just needed to know you were still in there somewhere."
I closed the book, fingers lingering on the cover. "You really think Almeida's hiding something?"
"Honestly? Yeah. I've seen him lock this place when it's already locked. And once—he was talking to someone inside. But when I opened the door, no one was there."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're either lying or you read too much fantasy."
He gave me that rare half-grin. "Says the girl who thinks a 70-year-old book might whisper secrets."
I laughed again. This time, even I felt the warmth rising in my chest.
The door creaked slightly, the wind rattling a loose pane of glass.
I turned to Ahad, who was already watching me again. This time not with worry—but with something else.
Something quieter.
And maybe, just maybe, more dangerous than what Haffiz had ever made me feel.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath until Ahad leaned back again, his chair creaking gently beneath him. His eyes lingered on me for a second longer before he finally looked away, almost as if it physically hurt him to break eye contact.
The silence fell again—not awkward, just dense. Like the room didn't want to interrupt whatever this was. The smell of paper and old wood clung to my hair, my sleeves. Somewhere in a corner, a thin string of cobweb shimmered in the filtered sunlight.
"You ever think," I said softly, running my fingertips along the spine of another book, "that maybe secrets like this are meant to be found at the right time… by the right people?"
Ahad tilted his head slightly. "You think we're the right people?"
"I don't know." I smiled faintly. "But this—whatever this is—it doesn't feel like nothing."
He didn't respond. Just stood up slowly, circled around the table, and stood behind me. I could feel his warmth, his presence, without a single touch. His fingers brushed a layer of dust off the top shelf before he spoke again.
"Iman…"
There was something heavy in the way he said my name. Like it meant more when he said it. Or maybe… maybe it just felt like that because he said it without demanding anything in return.
Before I could respond, the door creaked open again.
Hamid and Zaffar entered, still catching their breath from the outside, their hair a bit messy from the wind, jackets loose around their shoulders. Hamid immediately called out:
"There you are, Iman." His eyes swept over me with concern. "You didn't even finish your lunch."
"Honestly, we were just about to raid the canteen and kidnap you," Zaffar joked as he walked in, hands stuffed in his pockets, but his tone had a brotherly softness that didn't go unnoticed.
I smiled at them, thankful.
"Don't worry," Ahad muttered from beside me, "she had peace for five full minutes. That's record time."
"You're the reason she needs peace," Hamid grinned.
Ahad rolled his eyes. "You're not wrong."
Zaffar walked over and plopped beside me, nudging my arm. "You okay now? Or do we go back out and punch Haffiz again?"
"Not again," I muttered, though I laughed quietly.
Hamid leaned on the table and looked at me sincerely. "If you ever feel like something's off—even a little—you tell us, alright?"
Zaffar nodded. "We've got you. Always."
The weight of their words landed gently on my chest.
Ahad gave a small cough and subtly tilted his head at them.
Hamid raised an eyebrow. "You kicking us out?"
"Just hinting," Ahad said with a smirk, "some people don't understand personal space."
Zaffar stood up and mock-bowed. "Say no more, Romeo."
Hamid grinned, reached over and squeezed my shoulder before they both headed toward the door.
"I'll keep them out of trouble," Zaffar called.
"You are the trouble," Ahad muttered under his breath, just loud enough.
And just as the door was about to close again behind them—Shanzay appeared. Her arms folded, expression unreadable.
"Almeida's coming," she said casually. "Just so you know."
But it didn't sound important.
It sounded like noise. Like background static.
Because when she left, with the boys flanking her and her braid swinging behind her—
It was just me and Ahad again.
Just the books.
Just the secrets.
And maybe one or two still buried inside me.