He arrived coughing. Not from sickness—but memory.
Clothes charred at the edges. Smelled of old wood, grief, and something sweeter underneath—perhaps jasmine, or the promise of spring that never came.
He asked:
“Do you still serve it? The one that makes silence loud?”
I nodded. Brewed it with fireroot dust, ghostvine sap, and a drop of morning collected during a thunderstorm. When poured, it makes no sound.
He drank. His eyes did not water, but something inside him did.
Before leaving, he placed a scorched match on the counter and said:
“This lit the last library.”
The fire in the hearth flickered in response, pages turning where no books had been.
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