The Awakening
“I don’t sleep much.”
I should have stepped back, but I didn’t. The room seemed smaller with him in it, the walls pressing in as if to keep us close.
He reached past me, plucking a worn leather-bound volume from the shelf. “This one,” he said, setting it on the table, “is worth losing sleep for.”
It was an old history text, its pages brittle, the ink faded. He didn’t open it right away—just stood there, one hand resting on the cover, his gaze locked on me like he was searching for something.
Bab Populer