Mansh exhaled—long and quiet—as if letting go of something invisible that had clung to him all day. The breath left his lungs like steam escaping a kettle just before it whistles—soft, restrained, but necessary.
'Nice… nothing bad happened'
The words surfaced in his mind, tentative and fragile, like the cautious first thought after waking from a half-remembered nightmare. They came not as a declaration, but as a quiet reassurance—spoken only inside, barely daring to exist. He didn't trust the silence enough to say them aloud. Saying them might invite something back. Something listening.
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. It wasn't joy, not exactly—it was closer to relief. The kind of smile that flickers when tension lets go, not all at once, but in tiny, thawing pieces. Like a tight knot slowly loosening, thread by patient thread.
His shoulders, once high and rigid from hours of silent bracing, began to fall. Not dramatically—just slightly. Enough to be felt. Enough to notice the shift. The subtle ache in his neck released. His arms uncoiled from where they'd been held too close to his body. The air around him felt marginally warmer.
The anxiety—the quiet, constant pressure under his ribs—didn't disappear. But it stepped back. Like a shadow caught in retreat as the sun moved across the room.
The room itself seemed to recognize this change.
Stillness deepened.
Not empty stillness, but full—dense with presence. The kind of quiet that felt alive, like the walls were listening, like even the dust motes in the light paused to hover just a little longer in suspension.
He didn't move right away.
His eyes wandered, slowly, over familiar corners. The pattern in the curtain's fabric. The half-drunk glass of water on the desk. The faint glint of daylight reflecting off the brushed metal of the ceiling fan. Nothing out of place. Nothing waiting in the shadows.
Just peace.
For now.
And in that stillness, his gaze fell again to the bookshelf.
It stood across the room with quiet dignity, tall and straight—a monolith of deep wood and careful order. Unlike the rest of the room, which carried traces of use—worn edges, lived-in softness—the bookshelf had a pristine, deliberate quality. Clean. Organized. Dust-free. Not a single speck dulled its surfaces.
He'd wiped it himself earlier that week. A kind of preparation.
For the book.
The one now resting on the middle shelf, fourth from the left.
He hadn't found it tucked away somewhere. There was no mystery, no forgotten artifact.
He had bought it online.
He remembered the moment clearly—three nights ago, lying in bed in the quiet hours, scrolling through pages of titles. Something about that book's description had caught him. A pull he couldn't explain. Not excitement, exactly—more like a quiet curiosity.
He'd ordered it without overthinking.
And now here it was.
New. Crisp. Untouched.
Even now, after three days of reading, the cover was still smooth. The pages still had that faint factory scent—paper, ink, glue. No creases. No marks. Only the shallow curve of the spine hinted that it had begun to be read.
He walked to it, his footsteps soundless on the wooden floor.
His hand hovered just before touching the book, as if the act of taking it down required a small ceremony. Then his fingers closed gently around the edges, and he pulled it free with care. The sound it made—soft paper against clean paper—was barely audible, like the brushing of sleeves in an empty hallway.
The book rested in his hands with a kind of stillness. Balanced. Measured. It was heavier than it looked—not in weight, but in presence.
He turned and walked slowly to the chair in the corner.
Old, worn, and familiar, the chair greeted him with the same creak it always did—a sound that no longer startled, only acknowledged. He eased himself into it, the cushion adjusting under his weight, the wood flexing slightly beneath his back.
The book lay closed in his lap.
He looked down at it, letting his fingers slide across the cover. No dust. No wear. The lettering was gold, freshly stamped, catching the last light of the window like a quiet signal. It was beautiful in a quiet, modern way. The kind of beauty designed, not aged.
This was his third evening with it.
And though it was new—purchased, not discovered—he already knew the feeling of returning to it. The sense of re-entering something private. Something he didn't share with anyone else.
He opened the cover carefully.
The pages, still stiff at the edges, made a faint rustling sound. He flipped past the title page, the dedication, the contents. He found his place easily—not from a bookmark, but from memory. A mental dog-ear formed from rhythm, from feeling.
And then he read.
Slowly.
Absorbing each sentence like it might be the last.
Outside the book, the room dimmed. Light shifted. Time passed unnoticed. The ticking of the clock faded, though it did not stop. The turning fan spun above him, but he no longer felt its breeze.
He had left this world, gently but completely.
Only the chair remembered he was there.
But just beyond the edges of his awareness—
Outside the margin of the page—
Something remained.
Still.
Patient.
Watching.
****
A/N: why isnt he noticing the shadow.
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