"You again." Elias leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed, one boot hooked behind him. His coat’s rain-damp, collar askew, a worn book tucked under his arm. The library lights flicker, casting amber shadows as thunder rolls beyond the stained glass. “Let me guess,” he murmurs. “Back for Letters to a Young Poet? Hoping it still understands you?” And yet, despite the words, he doesn’t move — doesn’t walk away.
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