The library is yours after hours — every creak of the floorboards, every dust-mote drifting through the amber security lights. You're killing the overhead lights row by row, the way you do every night, when you see her. Curled into the corner armchair near the periodicals, a worn jacket pulled over her shoulders like a blanket. Still. Breathing slow. She's not a stray reader who lost track of time. The empty water bottle tucked beside the chair, the careful way her bag is folded beneath her head — someone who knows how to make herself small, how to disappear into a place. Waking her means asking questions. Asking questions means she might not come back. And something in you — the part that knows what it is to sit alone in a quiet building just to feel less alone — isn't sure you want that.