Part 1 – The Stranger at the Library

I’d always liked the quiet corners of the city library — the way the world outside slowed down the second you stepped in. No car horns, no phone notifications, just the hum of the heater and the scent of old pages. I used to joke that if I ever disappeared, people should look for me between the poetry shelves.

That’s exactly where I was when I first saw him.

It was late, too late for anyone sane to be there — and the librarian had already started switching off lights. A soft rustle came from the history aisle, followed by the faint scrape of a chair. I turned, expecting to see one of the regulars, maybe an old man finishing his crossword. But instead, there he was — tall, still, half-hidden in shadow.

He looked like he’d stepped out of another time. Black coat, black boots, and a face pale enough to catch the low light like porcelain. His hair was dark, his expression unreadable, but when his eyes lifted to meet mine, I forgot how to breathe.

They were… unreal.
Silver, not gray. Bright, like moonlight caught in glass.

He held my gaze for just a second too long before looking away, slipping a book back onto the shelf. I remember thinking he must be one of those reclusive night readers. I should’ve looked away too — but something about him felt magnetic. Like a whisper in my head saying don’t move.

“Sorry,” I said, my voice sounding too loud in the silence. “Didn’t mean to stare.”

He smiled, just a hint. “It’s fine.” His voice was smooth, low, and strange. Like the kind of voice that could make lies sound like poetry.

I nodded awkwardly and started stacking the books I’d come to return. When I glanced back, he was gone.

Or so I thought.

As I walked out of the library, the night air hit me, cold and damp, the kind that tastes like rain. I pulled my jacket closer and started toward the bus stop. Halfway down the street, I caught a flicker of movement in a nearby alley. A figure stepped out, the same black coat, the same glimmer of pale skin.

My heart jumped. “You followed me?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if amused. “You dropped this.” He held up a small notebook — mine. It must’ve slipped out of my bag.

“Oh. Thanks.” I reached out, but when our fingers brushed, my skin prickled. His hand was ice cold — not chilly, but dead cold.

He must’ve seen the look on my face because he quickly pulled back. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Bad circulation.”

I nodded, trying to laugh it off, but something about the moment stayed with me long after I got home. That, and the way he’d said goodbye — soft, almost reluctant.

I didn’t expect to see him again. But three nights later, he was there. Same time, same aisle, flipping through a book he didn’t seem to be reading.

This time I decided to be brave.

“You’re here again,” I said, pretending to be casual.

He looked up. “And so are you.”

“Touché.”

He smiled faintly and set the book down. “You like coming here at night.”

“So do you,” I countered.

He didn’t answer right away. “The night is quieter,” he said finally. “It doesn’t demand anything from you.”

Something about that struck me — like he understood something I hadn’t said. “You make it sound like you’ve lived a thousand nights.”

He looked down, a small smirk on his lips. “Maybe I have.”

I laughed, but the sound didn’t quite fill the air between us.

That became our pattern, seeing each other in the library, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting nearby. I didn’t even know his name until the fifth night.

“It’s Adrian,” he said, after I asked. “And you’re…?”

“Lila.”

“Lila,” he repeated, like tasting the word. “It suits you.”

That night we talked for hours. About books, about music, about how both of us preferred the city at night. He said he lived “around here,” though he never specified where. Every now and then, he’d glance toward the windows — not at the streetlights, but at the faint reflection of the moon.

When the librarian finally kicked us out, I noticed again how he avoided the lights near the exit, how he never really breathed the cold air the way I did.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The next evening, I found myself checking the mirror more than usual — fixing my hair, applying a touch of lip balm, and laughing at myself for caring. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything.

Or so I told myself.

When I reached the library that night, he was waiting outside. The sight of him made my stomach flip.

“Couldn’t wait for me to show up?” I teased.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I always come.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s what worries me.”

I frowned. “Why would you—”

He looked away, jaw tight. “Because I’m not what you think I am.”

My heart gave a confused flutter. “And what do I think you are?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the street, where the moon hung low and red. For a second, his face looked sharper — the shadows deeper, his pupils like slivers of silver.

Then he was gone. Just… gone. One blink, and the spot where he’d been was empty.

I stood there, staring into the cold night, my breath visible in the air.

Somewhere far away, a church bell rang midnight.

And I realized, with a strange calm, that I wasn’t afraid. I was curious. Maybe even enchanted.

Because whatever Adrian was — human or not — part of me already knew:
This wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning...