The rain returned a few nights after that conversation.
But this time, the rain in the Elven village did not fall like mere water; it descended like a melody sent from the sky.
On the fourth floor of the library, the world narrowed into a circle of light cast by a single crystal lamp on the desk. Outside the window, the forest breathed in the wet and the dark. Inside, there was only me, a pile of books, and her.
Elyra.
She sat across the table, neither reading nor writing. She simply existed. Her eyes were closed, her head resting lightly against the hand propping up her face. Her breathing was steady, synchronized with the rhythmic tapping of the rain against the glass.
I set down my pen. The black ink bled slightly into the rough paper where I had pressed down too hard.
"Tired?" Her voice broke the silence without her opening her eyes.
"Just... full," I answered quietly. "My head is full of foreign words."
Elyra opened her eyes. That liquid gold looked at me, not with judgment, but with a quiet curiosity. "Empty it. A vessel that is full cannot be filled any further."
I leaned back against the hard wooden chair. The crack of my spine sounded abrasive in a room this quiet. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and paused.
"May I?"
Elyra nodded. "Your smoke carries the scent of longing."
I lit it. A small spark flared, and then gray smoke danced upward, spiraling into the crystal's light.
"Miss," I called out.
"Elyra."
"Elyra." The name felt both foreign and familiar on my tongue. "Why do you let me stay here? I am human. My lifespan is short. I have no magic. I..."
She didn't answer immediately. She stood, her footsteps soundless against the wooden floor, and walked around the table until she stood beside me. She looked down at my messy handwriting.
"Do you know why this library is so silent?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Because we Elves remember everything. We live far too long. Every memory piles up, becoming a deafening noise inside our heads."
Her long, slender index finger touched my temple. Her touch was cold, but it left a strangely warm trail beneath my skin.
"You are different, Azisa. You come from nowhere. You do not carry the burden of this world's history. Near you..." She took a slow breath, as if inhaling the scent of the rain and tobacco. "...it feels silent. Calm."
My heart beat a fraction slower, a fraction heavier.
I stared at her hand, still lingering near my face. Unconsciously, I reached out and gently grasped her wrist. The pulse there beat faintly, incredibly slow—the rhythm of a life so long it terrified me.