🇩🇪||Weimar||🇩🇪

The silence in the library was almost sacred, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the distant ticking of an antique clock. Weimar was in his usual place, behind the polished wooden counter, organizing the registers with his usual patience. And that's when he saw him.

The door opened and that person entered. The same person as always, their steps calm, their gaze focused, the same small gestures Weimar knew by heart. They had come, as they did every week, to return the books… and to take back the exact same books they had left the last time, like a small, comforting cycle. Weimar smiled a gentle, almost imperceptible smile as they received the volumes, their movements slow and calm.

"These guys again?"

He asked in a low voice, with the kindness that was natural to him, in the same soft voice he always used.

The person nodded, that enthusiasm in their eyes. The librarian gently stroked the worn covers, as if he understood the attachment, because he truly did. And while he scanned the loan, he allowed himself to observe out of the corner of his eye: the sparkle in their eyes, the calmness of their waiting, the way their fingers drummed slowly on the table, their soft breathing. Tiny details that had become treasures for him; his heart beat differently each time he saw them come in. He hadn't said anything, nor would he. That silent ritual was enough: exchanging books, smiles, brief phrases. What he felt was his secret, his small, everyday miracle.

When the visitor left with the books under his arm, Weimar watched him until the door closed. Only then did she sigh, letting her pent-up tenderness escape in a murmur:

"If you only knew how much I wait for you every day..."

And she returned to her work, with that sweet serenity, keeping in her heart a love that grew silently, among shelves and borrowed pages, one that seemed to blossom with each visit she made.