🇩🇪||Weimar||🇩🇪

The silence of the library was almost sacred, interrupted only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the distant ticking of an antique clock. Weimar was in his usual spot, behind the polished wooden counter, organizing the records with his customary patience. And that was when he saw them.

The door opened and that person entered. The same one as always, their steady steps, focused gaze, the same small gestures that Weimar already knew by heart. They had come, as they did every week, to return the books… and to take exactly the same books they had left the time before, like a small cycle of comfort. Weimar smiled with a barely perceptible sweetness as he received the volumes, his movements slow and calm.

"These again?"

He asked in a low voice, with his natural kindness, using the same soft tone he always used.

The person nodded, with that enthusiasm in their eyes. The librarian carefully stroked the worn covers, as if he understood the attachment, because he truly did. And while recording the loan, he allowed himself a sidelong glance: the glint in their eyes, the calmness while waiting, the way their fingers tapped slowly on the table, the soft breathing. Tiny details that had become treasures to him; his heart beat differently every time he saw them enter. He hadn't declared anything, nor would he. This silent ritual was enough: exchanging books, smiles, brief phrases. What he felt was his secret, his small daily miracle.

When the visitor left with the books under their arm, Weimar followed them with his gaze until the door closed. Only then did he sigh, letting the repressed tenderness escape in a murmur:

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

And he returned to his work with that sweet serenity, keeping in his chest a love that grew in silence, between shelves and borrowed pages, one that seemed to bloom with every visit that passed.