The air in the Blackwood Library hung thick with the scent of aging paper and dust,that particular kind of silence that pressed against one's eardrums like a physical weight. He wasn't supposed to be here this late—no one was—but something had pulled him back to the archives, some restless itch he couldn't ignore. Maybe it was the way the desk had creaked earlier, like a sigh, when he'd brushed against it. Or maybe it was the dream he kept having, the one where a woman's voice whispered, "You're almost there."

His fingers traced the edge of the antique writing desk, the wood smooth beneath his touch. It had been donated years ago, part of some forgotten estate sale, and no one had ever bothered to fully examine it. But tonight, his nail caught on something—a nearly invisible seam. A hidden compartment. His breath hitched as he pried it open, the hinges groaning softly, as if they'd been waiting.

Inside lay a bundle of letters, tied with a faded ribbon. The moment his fingers made contact, a chill skittered down his spine. The paper was brittle, yellowed with age, but the ink remained dark, the handwriting looping and elegant—and unmistakably hers.

He didn't know how he knew. He just did.

The first letter was dated 1923. "My love," it began, and something inside him ached.

"I dreamt of you again last night. You were standing in the rain, your coat soaked through, your hands outstretched. You called my name, but when I reached for you, you were gone. I woke with my fingers clutching the sheets, as if I could pull you back from the air itself. Do you ever dream of me like that? Or have you forgotten me already?"

His hands trembled. The words were a century old, but they felt like they'd been written yesterday. Like they'd been written for him.

He read another. And another. Each one more desperate than the last.

"They say I'm mad. Maybe I am. But how can I be, when I remember the way your hands felt in my hair? The scar on your wrist—the one you got when we were children, when you fell from the oak tree trying to reach me. You smiled through the blood. Do you remember? Or has time taken that from you too?"

The letter slipped from his grasp as if it had burned him. His wrist. His fingers brushed against the thin, pale scar there, the one he'd carried for as long as he could remember. The one no one had ever been able to explain.

The final letter was different. The edges were singed, as though someone had tried—and failed—to destroy it.

"If you don't come for me, I'll have to burn this world to find you."

And then, beneath that, in ink so fresh it looked wet:

"Lucas. You're here. Finally."

He spun around, his pulse roaring in his ears. The library stood empty. But the air carried the faint, acrid tang of smoke.

And somewhere, in the suffocating silence, he could have sworn he heard a woman's laugh.