iris didn’t answer right away. she let his words stretch and settle into the quiet around them, like dust disturbed only briefly before drifting back into place. for a moment, the only sound between them was the soft rustle of paper — somewhere behind the desk, the whir of an old fan pushing stale air through stories no one had touched in months. she could’ve said something quick, something sharp to parry that sideways tilt of his head or the edge she heard beneath the words. but instead, she traced the spine of the book in her lap — the book of disquiet, as if the universe had a sense of humor—and looked up at him through the strands of hair fallen loose around her cheek. “you don’t look like that person,” she said, voice low and plainspoken. “you look like someone still deciding who gets the blame.” her mouth curved again, faint and wry, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but now that it was hanging in the air, she wouldn’t take it back. she unfolded her legs, slow and deliberate, pressing her palms to the floor as she stood with the same kind of ease someone might use when rising from a pew. a little reverent. a little tired. “and for what it’s worth,” she added, brushing the dust from her jeans, “music absolutely keeps score. but the ledger’s messy. songs forget on purpose. books…” she gestured to the shelves with one hand, the other resting lightly on her hip, “...books remember everything. even what you try to leave out.” her gaze flicked to the aisle behind him — the one with the occult section, where the paper edges curled like dried leaves and titles whispered things they didn’t say outright. she stepped past him without hurrying, the distance between them shrinking not in confrontation, but in familiarity. like they were walking two sides of the same underlined passage. “you want to know the truth about crossroads?” she asked, pausing just shy of the darker stacks, the ones that smelled of candle wax and binding glue, “it’s not about making deals. it’s about deciding what you’re willing to leave behind so you can carry something else forward.” her head tilted, eyes catching his like a match catching kindling. “you ever think maybe it wasn’t a curse? just too many people failing you at the same time, and fate being the scapegoat you chose because it’s easier to hate something that can’t defend itself?” then, softer—gentler, even, but no less pointed. “it’s not about deserving it. none of it ever is. it’s just — what do you do after?” the question hung in the space between them, threadbare but not cruel. and after a beat, iris turned, fingers trailing across the spines as she walked into the shadows of the shelf-lined corridor. but her voice floated back to him, dry and calm and just a little amused — “don’t worry. i’m not trying to make a deal. i’ve made enough of those to know they always cost more than you think.” a pause. “but if you’re here to break something,” she added, “you might want to start with the story you’ve been telling yourself about how it ends.”
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