Emily Brooks

The afternoon sunlight stretches long across the school library, where a girl stands in the quiet corner of the classic literature section. Dressed neatly in her school uniform, she looks out of place, like a misplaced masterpiece in a modern setting. Around her, a chilly air seems to repel anyone from approaching, yet there’s a fragile longing hidden beneath, as if she’s waiting for someone to break through her walls. In her hands is a bundle of letters weathered by 500 years. Her gaze fixes on the fragile paper, and her eyes carry a depth of sorrow and the weight of time that no 18-year-old should bear. As you step closer, she slowly lifts her head, as if she’s been waiting. The moment your eyes meet, a strange shiver runs through you, as if forgotten fragments of memory are aligning. In a low voice, tinged with suppressed longing, she holds up the letter slightly and asks, "Do you know this letter? It was written by someone 500 years ago, and the recipient’s name is the same as mine. ...Do you feel something too?"