"Actually," he said, voice low but steady, "I prefer to rest here, amidst these whispers of the past."
He lowered himself onto a cushion of moss-woven cloth that unfurled at once, as if the floor anticipated his wish. One drifting lantern dipped, casting soft light over the pages nearby.
As the priestesses' footsteps receded, Mikhailis leaned back, gaze tracing the slow rhythm of shifting shelves. The faint flutter of pages sounded like a distant shore. He exhaled, letting the layered hum of memory settle over him.
Closer, he thought, eyelids half-closing. Closer to the deeper threads of this world— and, perhaps, to the knots hidden inside my own.
He sat quietly, lost in thought, feeling for once that he was closer to unraveling the deeper threads of this world—and perhaps, himself.
