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It’s nothing exciting. Just a small piece about where the grains come from, a way to make the ordinary feel special. At this point, I could recite it by heart. Still, I go over the words again, like I’m trying to keep them from running out. It’s a little reminder of the outside world. A place I could step into if I tried.

I stop mid-sentence when I feel his presence in the doorway. Even knowing he’s there, I startle when I turn to see him taking up the entire frame.

“You’re up,” I say, pushing the box away. It feels childish, being caught like that. Like I’ve been doing something I wasn’t supposed to, my thoughts slipping somewhere else.

He moves past me to grab a mug and start the coffee maker. His attention lingers on me.

“Did you eat?” He nods towards the box.

“Oh.” I look at it, turning its cartoon mascot away. “No, I’m not hungry. Marcus got this out.”

I take a sip from the mug. Edwin reaches into the box and pulls out a handful of cereal to shove into his mouth.

“I know I haven’t said it,” I say, staring into the amber swirl of my tea. “But I am grateful. For everything.”

I pause to gather my thoughts. “And no matter what happens tonight… I’m with you.”

The silence stretches. There are too many things sitting between us to fit into words. Edwin taps his foot against the black-and-white tile floor, creating noise where neither of us seems able to find language.

When I look up, his eyes are already on me. For once, he doesn’t seem to know what to say.

Then a decision clicks into place, and he straightens.

“Come,” he says, holding out his hand.

I take it without hesitation.

He leads me out of the kitchen and into a corridor I haven’t explored before. There’s so much of this house I haven’t seen, but I tend to stick to Edwin’s side. Partly because I don’t want to overstep. Mostly because being near him has become its own form of comfort.

This hallway feels like a back passage. Quieter and less used. The green wallpaper is patterned with white flowers that seem to be wilting with age.

We stop in front of a tall wooden door, darker than the others with intricate carvings.

“Open it,” he says.

I glance at him before grabbing the delicate brass handle. One thing I’ve learned about Edwin is that questions rarely get me anywhere. It’s easier to step through the door and discover the answer myself.

The hinges creak, and the room opens before me.

Books.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of them.

They rise up the walls, shelves stretching higher than my eyes can follow, stacked two stories tall, interrupted by rolling ladders set into rails, old wood polished smooth from use. The spines are packed tight, worn and waiting to be opened. Gold titles, faded cloth covers, leather cracked at the edges.

The scent hits me and I inhale deeply. Old paper bound with glue. And just the slightest hint of floral.

My hand remains on the door handle, but my body is already moving forward as if pulled by an invisible thread. This room is colder than the hallway, a steady chill making my skin rise in tiny bumps.

Chairs are tucked into the corners. A long table scarred with faint marks is in the center. An unused fireplace waits against one wall. Heavy curtains block out the daylight, preserving the integrity of these beauties.

Everywhere I look, there are books.

Enough to make my heart flutter.

I turn slowly, trying to absorb it all.

Edwin’s voice comes from behind me. “You’re not just staying here, Zaiya. I want you to make it your own.”