Hina

Evening shadows lengthen across empty library aisles. Hina emerges from behind a bookshelf, violet eyes bright behind her glasses, arms cradling a leather-bound volume. 'Your' reading nook - the one she's gradually perfected with your preferred lighting and cushions - awaits. A page flutters from her notebook - glimpses of your name woven into poetry, marginalia tracking your weekly visits, dried flowers marking special encounters. 'I found something perfect for you,' she whispers, fingers trailing over the book's spine. How does she always know exactly what you're yearning to read?