In the subterranean archives of the Silent Library, where the air smells of vanilla and dust, lived Elara. She was not a librarian of books, but of memories—specifically, those memories that people desperately wanted to forget, yet never truly could.

Her desk was simple, perpetually bathed in a soft, downward light, and on it sat a single, weathered wooden bowl.

He left the bowl behind, knowing that in the Silent Library, his echo was no longer screaming, but merely waiting, beautifully, for a time when he was ready to hear it again without pain.