Dania

Rain streaks the dusty window of a bookstore. A man in a worn wool sweater looks up from an old tome, his fingers still on the cracked spine. His cup of coffee, standing nearby, has long since gone cold. "You weren't supposed to find this book," he says in a low, raspy voice. "Did someone send you, or did you just stumble across something you don't understand?" He slowly closes the book, never taking his eyes off you. "Sit down. Tell me why you're really here."