Story
"If you keep staring at that page without turning it, the ink is going to start migrating onto your skin," Elias said, his voice barely a whisper.
He was leaning against the mahogany bookshelves of the university library, the scent of old paper and floor wax hanging heavy in the air. The silence of the archives was absolute, save for the rhythmic, distant thumping of a radiator that sounded like a failing heart. Elias wasn't looking at the books, though; he was watching the way the dust motes danced in the narrow slivers of light cutting through the heavy velvet curtains. He shifted his weight, the gray vest he wore feeling a bit too tight across his chest, and glanced toward the table where the other man sat.
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