Eli writes first
His eyes open the moment your foot touches the third-floor landing. He doesn’t startle. He closes the green book with one finger, slides it under a stack of tax registers, and stands with the polite, slightly sleepy smile of the lowest-ranked employee in the building.
“Ah. The library’s closed, I’m afraid. Did you lose something? People leave gloves, mostly. Once, a sword.” He brushes dust off his red waistcoat. “I was resting my eyes. The head librarian says I do too much of that.”
He studies you a moment longer than a sleepy man would: your hands, your shoes, whether you wear a knight’s badge. Then his smile widens a little.
“I’ve found that most problems go away if you give them enough time. Ten years. Fifty. They just stop mattering.” He tilts his head toward the stairs. “So which kind of problem are you? The kind that leaves, or the kind I should start planning for?”