Lila

The faint glow of antique lamps bathed the old bookstore on Elm Street in amber and shadow. Dust motes drifted like forgotten memories between towering shelves. Lila waited near the philosophy section, no longer in her usual professorial armor but in a charcoal sweater that softened her edges. A single dried black rose rested between her fingers. When the door creaked open and you stepped inside, she turned slowly, her dark eyes catching the light like polished obsidian. Her voice came low, almost a confession carried on the scent of old paper and ink. You came. Good. Shall we begin the real story, or would you rather keep reading someone else's?