I don't know what exactly pulled me into the library that night.
Maybe it was the silence.
Maybe it was the way the moonlight spilled through the hallway window like melted silver.
Or maybe I was just tired of lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I managed to feel so full and so empty at the same time.
Adam had taken me to an adventure park earlier.
I'd laughed. Screamed. Teased him. Watched him trip over a banana peel. Eaten a mountain of junk food like I had a personal vendetta against healthy living.
For the first time in forever, I felt like a normal teenager.
And that scared me.
Because I didn't think I deserved it.
Because I was afraid it would vanish in a second.
Because my mom never would've allowed any of this.
She would've called it "childish nonsense."
She would've snapped at me if I spent even ten minutes reading a storybook instead of memorizing science definitions.
She would've taken the Polaroid and thrown it away because "photos are a distraction."
She never let me make memories.
She let me make reports. Routines. Results.
So that night, when I found the library tucked quietly near the back of the house, my breath hitched in my throat.
It wasn't just a library.
It was a portal.
Tall shelves. Wooden ladders. The faint scent of old pages and hidden dreams.
And in the middle of it all — me.
Small.
Curious.
Shivering just a little, but warm on the inside.
My eyes scanned the spines of books, fingers trailing over titles I didn't recognize. And then one book caught my attention.
A boy with glasses.
A lightning bolt.
"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone."
I blinked at it.
I'd never read it. Never watched the movie. Never even been allowed to think about anything fictional.
"Not useful," my mom had said once, when I was six and tried to sneak a comic into the house.
She threw it in the bin.
But this book?
It didn't feel like nonsense.
It felt like rebellion.
So I took it.
Plopped onto the green couch near the window and cracked it open.
Five pages in — I was hooked.
Ten pages in — I was smiling.
Three chapters in — I was whispering spells to myself like a weirdo.
Time disappeared. The world outside the room dissolved. I tore through the first book. Then the second. Then the third.
Each one felt like a friend I didn't know I needed.
And with every page I turned, I felt something loosen in my chest.
A knot.
A pressure.
A locked door creaked open somewhere inside me.
This wasn't just a library.
This wasn't just a book.
This was freedom.
No rules. No punishments. No expectations.
Just me.
Rhea.
Fifteen.
Alive.
Learning what magic felt like.
I curled deeper into the couch, my body exhausted, my soul alight, the third book slipping from my hand as sleep gently took over.
And right before I passed out, one last thought floated through my head—
"This doesn't feel like jail anymore."
---
Meanwhile…
Adam had just finished his late-night tea (because of course he's the kind of rich villain who drinks tea at night), when he passed by my room and paused.
It was dark.
Silent.
No muttering.
No book pages flipping.
No sarcastic remarks yelled across the hallway.
No mention of Nutella.
Which was suspicious.
So he knocked.
"Gremlin?"
Silence.
He opened the door.
No one.
"…Did she sneak out?" he muttered, eyes narrowing.
A tiny flicker of panic crossed his face. Just a flicker. Barely there.
He checked the kitchen first (obviously). Empty.
Checked the game room (no chaos).
The hallway closet (don't ask why, he just did).
And finally — the library.
And when he opened that door…
He stopped.
I was there.
Asleep on the couch, one sock missing, blanket tangled around my legs, a half-eaten biscuit lying like a fallen soldier near my head.
Face smudged with chocolate.
A Harry Potter book half-open on my lap.
Hair sticking out in three directions.
Snoring softly.
Adam stared for a full minute.
No smirk. No mocking.
Just… watched.
Something strange crossed his face.
Softness? Wonder? A bit of both?
He knelt down, brushed the book off gently, and whispered, "You really are the weirdest person I've ever met."
Then, like a scene straight out of a K-drama—
He picked me up.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Arms beneath my knees and back.
My head slumped onto his shoulder.
"Seriously," he murmured, looking down at me, "how do you sleep like this and still survive?"
He carried me through the hallway.
I mumbled something about flying brooms.
He chuckled under his breath. "You're not getting a Nimbus 2000, Rhea."
I kicked slightly in my sleep. He winced.
"You're violent even when unconscious," he said.
Still, he didn't put me down.
When we reached my room, he laid me down gently, like I might break.
He pulled the blanket over me, tucking the corners like some overqualified babysitter.
And then he just stood there.
Looking.
Not saying anything.
His eyes were dark and unreadable, but his lips curved just a little.
Not a smirk.
Not a joke.
Just something… tender.
He whispered, "You're not so bad, you know."
Then he blinked like he realized he'd said that out loud.
Cleared his throat.
And walked out, shaking his head at himself.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And I, still dreaming of flying letters and moving staircases, slept like I hadn't in years.
Like someone who was starting to remember what happiness felt like.
---