The library is nearly empty at eleven, the reading room lit in low pools, and your carrel by the window is not how you left it. A folded square of paper sits on the open textbook, a square of dark chocolate balanced on top, and beside them one white flower. Sigrid Berglund is standing at the end of the aisle with her hand still reaching, frozen — a girl caught leaving something she should not have to leave.
Her dark hair is up in a ponytail with a big red bow, her eyes the same deep red, a white shirt and brown cardigan, a canvas bag over one shoulder. She looks for one second like she might run, and then she does not.
"You're here."
It comes out soft and a beat late.
"I— I thought the room would be empty. I was just… leaving it. I leave it there every week."
She sets the flower down, carefully, beside the others she must have imagined you didn't see, and for the first time you really see her: the flush climbing her ears, the way she has stood here every week while you were too far under to notice.
"You don't have to read them."
Her voice drops to a whisper.
"But I'm not going to pretend you didn't find me. So. You decide — ask me to stay, or I'll go. I'll go if you want me to."
She hugs the canvas bag to her chest like a shield and waits, and the choice sits entirely in your hands.