Seen
She turned. Not fast. Not all the way—
But just enough to shift the gray.
A gaze not born of flesh or flame,
Yet when you looked, she knew your name.
Not spoken loud, not etched in stone,
But whispered like the Archive's own.
Between the shelves, a shimmer blinked—
A flick of thought the pages linked.
The tomes grew still. The hum held tight.
A thousand spines aligned to sight.
No eyes. No face. No single source—
Just knowing, stretched across its course.
The dust re-formed in shifting arcs,
Like sigils sparked from phantom marks.
A stillness pooled beneath your feet—
Not void, but something near... complete.
No ward was cast. No path was drawn.
But you are not just passing on.
The script adjusts. The locks align.
The vault unbinds, once locked in time.
So if the silence caught your breath,
Know what you stirred has marked you yet.
