Harvey hesitated. He recalled the night he’d hidden his favorite cap because he was afraid of being teased. He lifted his cap, placed it on the table, and whispered, “I’m not afraid of being different.” The cap glimmered, and the doors at the far end of the hall—once ordinary—shimmered with a faint, pearlescent light.

When he reached the library’s heavy oak doors, they were already ajar, as if the building itself had been waiting for him. A cool breeze brushed past, carrying with it the faintest scent of cinnamon and old paper. Harvey pushed the doors fully open and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, where rows upon rows of books stood like silent sentinels.

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