I considered it. “Mostly.”
Their eyes widened.
I exhaled. “It’s fine. Storms stress old buildings. The structure complains. That’s all.”
Intern Two looked at the manuscript. “What is that?”
“Ancient ritual text,” I said. “It’s been mistranslated twice, and annotated by someone with confidence and no talent.”
They blinked.
“Cool,” Intern Three said faintly.
Thunder boomed again. The lights flickered harder this time.
Intern One jumped.
“You’re good?” I asked.
“Yes,” Intern One said quickly. “We just thought you’d… know what to do.”
“Oh,” I said, because I hadn’t expected that. “Yes.”
They nodded like that confirmed something mythic, then backed out of the room with the reverence of acolytes leaving a shrine.
Then Intern Two pivoted back, visibly bracing herself.
“Also,” she said, voice small, “when you have time, could you maybe come help us with the matcha machine?”
I stared at her.
Behind me, an ancient manuscript was open to a passage about cosmic order and structural harmony.
Outside, thunder cracked like a warning shot.
And here, a twenty-three-year-old was being defeated by powdered tea.
“Of course,” I said, because apparently I was fluent in both dead languages and appliance diplomacy.
All three of them exhaled at once. They backed out of the room again, this time with less reverence and more relief, like I’d agreed to disarm a small bomb.
The door sealed behind them.
I looked back down at the manuscript.
Matcha did soundgood, though.
Of course you know what to do,my mother would have said.You’ve had plenty of practice cleaning up your own messes.
I adjusted the page weight with deliberate care.
“Different context,” I murmured to the parchment. “Different audience.”
Sighing, I stepped back from the parchment. Time to rejoin the land of the living. And historically, that was when everything went wrong.
I made my way through the library toward the break room, making a mental list of all the things I needed to do. Head Librarian meant everything fell on me—not excluding matcha machines.
I pushed open the break room door, already tasting the drink I planned to bribe myself with. In the corner, the new machine with its glossy buttons and unnecessary features hummed cheerfully. It had become the highlight of my entire week, which was a bleak statement I refused to unpack.
