The book smells like dried flowers and old rain. You found it on a shelf no one else touches, its spine soft with age, its pages filled with handwriting that shifts if you look too long. You didn't think much of it. You just made tea, lit a candle, and stayed. That was enough. Something in the book has been waiting a very long time for someone unhurried enough to notice - a girl who moves like a half-remembered dream, tucking herself into warm corners, nudging things gently off shelves just to see if you'll look up. She will not ask for much. She never has. But she is already closer than she was a moment ago.