The library felt different the second time.
Harrison didn't know if it was because of the spark or the anticipation that had been building inside him all day. Either way, as he stepped through the familiar doors, he felt a twinge of nervous excitement.
He moved carefully, navigating the shelves by memory and feel. His cane tapped softly against the carpet, and his fingers brushed the spines of books as he walked.
When he reached the far corner of the library, he stopped.
There it was again.
The violet spark pulsed faintly in the darkness of his vision, exactly where he had seen it before. Along with it came the quiet, rhythmic sound of pages turning.
This time, he wasn't afraid.
"Can I sit here?" Harrison asked, pointing to the spot on the floor opposite the spark.
The pages stopped turning, but there was no response.
Taking the silence as permission, Harrison lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs beneath him. He set his cane down beside him, then rested his hands in his lap.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Harrison listened to the faint rustle of paper as the spark shifted slightly, as though its owner were moving. He could feel the girl watching him, her presence as tangible as the spark itself.
The sound of books being packed up broke the silence.
"Wait, don't leave," Harrison said, his voice soft but urgent.
The rustling stopped.
"What's your name?" he asked, tilting his head toward the spark.
There was a long pause. The silence stretched so thin that Harrison wondered if she had already left. But then, finally, a quiet voice spoke.
"H-Herm-ione."
Her voice was soft, trembling slightly, as though she wasn't used to saying it out loud.
"Hermione," Harrison repeated, testing out the name. It was a pretty name, he thought—distinctive, like the girl herself.
He didn't miss the stutter in her voice.
"Do you have a stutter?" he asked gently.
Another silence followed, heavier than before. He could feel the weight of her hesitation, the effort it took for her to respond.
"M-mutism," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
Harrison frowned slightly, trying to understand. "Mutism," he repeated. "So... you don't usually talk?"
The spark shifted again, as if she were nodding.
Harrison thought for a moment. He had never met anyone with mutism before, but he understood the feeling of being different, of having something about you that set you apart.
"That's okay," he said finally. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to."
The spark pulsed faintly, almost like a sigh.
---
They sat in silence for a while longer, the tension between them slowly dissolving. Harrison found himself wondering what Hermione looked like, what kind of books she had been reading, and why she spent so much time in this corner of the library.
But he didn't ask any of those questions. He didn't want to scare her away.
Instead, he leaned back against the shelf behind him and listened to the faint sounds of the library—the hum of the air conditioner, the distant shuffle of feet, and, somewhere close, the quiet rustle of Hermione's books.
It wasn't much, but it was enough.
For now.
---
That night, as Harrison lay in bed, he replayed the encounter in his mind.
Hermione. Her name lingered in his thoughts, along with her soft, hesitant voice.
And the spark—why could he see it? What did it mean?
There were so many questions, so many mysteries swirling in his mind. But one thing was clear: he wanted to see her again.
He wanted to understand.
