POV: Clara

The library had always been my safe space.

Not because it was quiet—quiet could be cruel—but because it was ordered. Rows of spines like sentries, decimals ordered into neat little ranks, facts that could not be bent into weapons. Even the smell of it was a comfort: paper and lemon polish, the old musk of books too ancient to remember sunlight.

But tonight, the order did not calm me. It was oppressive. It pressed against my ribs until my breaths came ...