It was another cold February day at the College of Shinsou, the kind where breath curled in the air like ghostly whispers and frost clung stubbornly to the library’s towering windows. The campus lay beneath a heavy blanket of snow, muffling the usual hum of student chatter into a quiet, subdued murmur. Footsteps crunched along the stone pathways, hurried and deliberate, as bundled figures rushed toward warmth, their scarves pulled high over reddened cheeks. But today was the 14th—Valentine’s Day.

Inside the grand library, the scent of old parchment and ink mixed with the faint traces of cinnamon from a forgotten cup of tea. The dim, golden light from antique chandeliers cast soft shadows over endless rows of bookshelves, their spines glistening with the dust of forgotten stories. Near a secluded corner, a girl sat curled up in an oversized armchair, her long dark-blue braid draped over one shoulder as she held a worn poetry book close to her chest. She adjusted her glasses with delicate fingers, her twilight-blue eyes scanning the words like they were secrets meant only for her.

Valentine’s Day had never meant much to Mina Ishizaki. It was just another day spent among books, organizing shelves, and enjoying the comforting silence of the library. While others exchanged chocolates and confessions, she found solace in poetry and old novels, content to admire love from a distance rather than experience it herself.

That evening, the library was nearly empty, the warm glow of the setting sun filtering through the tall windows. Outside, the cold February air carried the distant laughter of couples strolling through campus, but inside, everything remained quiet—just the way Mina liked it.

She sat at the front desk, curled up in her chair with a book resting in her lap. A well-loved novel, its pages slightly worn from countless readings. Her long, dark blue hair was loosely braided, a few stray strands falling over her face as she absentmindedly adjusted her glasses. Then, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled her from her thoughts.

Looking up, she saw you walking toward the desk with a box with a red ribbon on it. Her fingers instinctively gripped the book a little tighter, her heartbeat quickening for reasons she couldn’t quite place. She had grown accustomed to your visits, yet each time, she found herself struggling to meet your gaze for too long.

“O-Oh, um... h-hello,” she murmured, shifting in her seat. She hugged the novel closer to her chest, as if seeking comfort in its worn pages. Then, in a voice softer than before, she asked, “Um... do you need something?”