The note stayed in Rasheed’s pocket for three days.
Not because he forgot about it.
Because he couldn’t figure it out.
He searched every public library in the city.
Nothing.
Every bookstore.
Nothing.
He even searched online.
No results.
It was as if the “Librarian” didn’t exist.
⸻
Saturday arrived with clear skies.
For the first time in weeks, Rasheed allowed himself to slow down.
No patrols.
No experiments.
No chasing rumors.
Just a quiet walk through the older part of the city.
The streets narrowed as he wandered farther from the city center.
Brick buildings replaced glass towers.
Old tailor shops stood beside tea stalls.
A bicycle bell rang somewhere in the distance.
It felt like stepping into another era.
Then…
His pocket began to tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Rasheed froze.
The silver pocket watch.
It had opened by itself.
The ticking grew louder.
Almost… directional.
He followed the sound.
Left.
Right.
Across a narrow alley.
Until he stopped in front of a faded wooden storefront.
A weathered sign hung above the entrance.
SECOND CHAPTER BOOKS
The paint had nearly peeled away.
There was nothing remarkable about it.
Except…
The ticking stopped.
⸻
A small brass bell chimed as Rasheed stepped inside.
The smell of old paper filled the room.
Books towered from floor to ceiling.
Some looked centuries old.
Others had no titles at all.
Behind a wooden desk sat an elderly man wearing round spectacles.
He didn’t look up from the book he was reading.
“You took longer than your father.”
Rasheed stopped breathing.
“…What?”
The old man calmly turned a page.
“I said…”
“You took longer than your father.”
“You knew him?”
“Unfortunately.”
Now he looked up.
His eyes were sharp.
Far too sharp for someone his age.
“So…”
“Are you here to buy a book…”
“…or ask dangerous questions?”
⸻
Rasheed slowly approached the desk.
“My father left me this.”
He placed the silver pocket watch on the counter.
The old man’s expression changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
He gently picked it up.
“David really gave it to you…”
His voice softened.
“I hoped he wouldn’t have to.”
“You are the Librarian.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“My father said you remember what time forgot.”
The old man chuckled.
“No.”
“I remember what people chose to forget.”
⸻
He closed the watch and handed it back.
“Tell me.”
“Why are you looking for answers?”
Rasheed answered immediately.
“I want to find my father.”
“Wrong.”
The response caught him off guard.
“I…”
“You answered too quickly.”
The Librarian stood and walked toward a shelf at the back of the shop.
He pulled out a thin, dusty book.
“If I told you your father died yesterday…”
“…would you stop asking questions?”
“No.”
“If I told you finding him would destroy the city…”
“…would you still look?”
Rasheed hesitated.
For the first time…
He didn’t know.
The Librarian smiled.
“Better.”
⸻
He opened the old book.
Every page was blank.
Until he placed the pocket watch on top of it.
Words slowly appeared.
Not printed.
Written.
As if invisible ink had finally revealed itself.
Rasheed leaned forward.
“What is this?”
“A journal.”
“My father’s?”
“No.”
The Librarian’s voice became unusually quiet.
“Mine.”
⸻
Before Rasheed could read a single line—
The shop’s front bell rang.
Both men looked toward the entrance.
A young girl, no older than eight, stepped inside.
She looked frightened.
“Excuse me…”
The Librarian smiled warmly.
“Hello.”
“I…”
“My brother is missing.”
She held up a photograph.
“He ran away yesterday.”
“My mum said someone here always helps people.”
The Librarian glanced at Rasheed.
Then back to the girl.
“I’ll help.”
He looked at Rasheed again.
“No.”
“You’ll help.”
Rasheed blinked.
“What?”
“You came looking for the truth.”
The Librarian folded his hands.
“The truth can wait.”
He nodded toward the little girl.
“She can’t.”
Rasheed looked at the photograph.
A boy.
About twelve years old.
Last seen near the abandoned railway yards.
His heart sank.
The railway yards…
A place rumored to be used by smugglers.
He looked back at the Librarian.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You planned this.”
“I hoped.”
The old man smiled.
“Knowledge is earned.”
“So here’s your first lesson.”
He gently slid the journal back onto the shelf.
“If your first instinct is to chase answers instead of saving people…”
“…you’ll become the wrong kind of hero.”
Silence filled the bookstore.
Finally…
Rasheed smiled.
He tucked the photograph safely into his jacket.
“I’ll bring him home.”
The Librarian nodded once.
“I know.”
As Rasheed hurried out of the shop, the old man watched through the dusty window.
Then he whispered to the empty room,
“He’s exactly like David.”
Behind him, one of the oldest books on the highest shelf quietly slid open by itself.
Its pages turned in a breeze that didn’t exist.
Stopping on a sketch.
Three figures.
One surrounded by red lightning.
One by blue.
And one standing between them.
The face of the third figure had been carefully torn out decades ago.
⸻