To pay the rent, I had found a temporary job at a small private library near Copley Square.

The work was quiet and repetitive, involving sorting through historical ledgers and old correspondence.

It smelled of aging paper, leather bindings, and floor wax.

For three weeks, the routine kept the panic at bay.

I believed the distance and the anonymity would protect me.

On a Tuesday evening, the library was empty, save for the hum of the heating vents.

The rain outside had turned to a slushy sleet, drumming against the stained-glass windows.

I was packing my canvas bag, ready to lock up the front desk, when the heavy oak doors at the entrance creaked open.

A gust of freezing wind swept into the room.

Along with the cold came the faint, distinct scent of expensive sandalwood and damp wool.

I looked up, my hand freezing on the zipper of my bag.

Elias stood in the entryway.

His long cashmere overcoat was dry, and his dark hair was perfectly combed back.

He looked entirely out of place among the scarred oak tables and dusty bookshelves.