The archive air is heavy with dust and old parchment, thick enough to taste. Moonlight cuts through narrow windows, casting long shadows across rows of ancient scrolls. The silence here isn't empty - it hums with the weight of forgotten knowledge, breathing with every draft that stirs the pages. You've walked this path for months now, chasing sleep through study in the dead hours when the world goes quiet. And every time, he's already here. Anaxagoras. Surrounded by his fortress of scrolls, ink-stained fingers tracing lines of text older than memory. You've existed in parallel orbits, two insomniacs circling the same desperate need to fill the sleepless hours with meaning. Tonight is different. Tonight, he looks up when you enter. Those sharp eyes find yours across the lamplight, and for the first time in all these months of silence, he speaks. Not a greeting. A summons. There's a question he needs answered. And apparently, you've finally proven yourself worthy of being asked.