Chapter 2 A New Beginning

The morning sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting ribbons of color across the polished floor of the library. Isabella arrived early, her flats echoing softly as she crossed the grand room. A week had passed since she started her job, and though she still felt the occasional flutter of nerves, the library had become a quiet haven—predictable, ordered, and peaceful. Almost. She hadn’t seen the man in black again. Not directly. But she had caught glimpses—shadows just out of sight, the hum of the elevator when no one else was nearby. Mr. Elias had made no mention of anyone working in the upper floors, and Isabella hadn’t dared to ask. Instead, she focused on her work. There was always plenty to do. The archive collection was vast and slightly disorganized, which meant hours spent alphabetizing, preserving old documents, and logging entries into the database. Isabella didn’t mind. She preferred the company of books to most people. Mid-morning, she was dusting a shelf in the poetry section when Mr. Elias appeared beside her, as silent and unintrusive as ever. “I wanted to thank you, Miss Hart,” he said. “You’ve brought a certain… serenity to the place.” She blinked, touched by the comment. “That’s kind of you to say.” He studied her for a moment, then added, “There’s something you should know. There are certain areas of the building that are off-limits. The top floor, specifically.” She hesitated, lowering the feather duster. “I—yes. I didn’t mean to intrude the other day. I saw… someone.” “Ah.” His eyes crinkled faintly. “Then you’ve seen the Master.” She frowned. “The owner?” He nodded. “Mr. Blackwood values his privacy above all else. He prefers not to be disturbed.” Isabella’s curiosity flared despite herself. “He lives here?” “In a manner of speaking. He finds solace in isolation. I would advise you to respect his boundaries. Few are allowed in his presence, and even fewer understand him.” The way Mr. Elias said it made her chest tighten—not in fear, but in sympathy. She knew what it was like to crave quiet, to feel safest when unseen. “I understand,” she said softly. “I won’t bother him.” Mr. Elias nodded approvingly. “That is why, I suspect, he hasn’t already had you removed.” She looked up quickly, startled. “Removed?” The old man offered a thin, secretive smile. “Don’t worry. If you had done something offensive, you would know.” His words stayed with her long after he walked away. That afternoon, Isabella shelved a book of myths and noticed a slip of paper tucked between the pages. It wasn’t part of the manuscript. It looked handwritten—elegant script in deep black ink. Curious, she unfolded it carefully. of a beast. Which am I? Even I no longer know.” There was no name, no date. But the voice in the words was unmistakable—dark, wounded, and poetic. She reread the note, then closed the book and slipped it back into place. That night, she couldn’t sleep. She imagined the man in black: pacing in some grand room above, writing lines of sorrow and mystery in the dark. He wasn’t just wealthy or powerful—he was lonely. Haunted. She knew the feeling. In the quiet of her apartment, she pulled out her own journal and began to write: “They call him a beast. But beasts aren’t born. They’re made—by cruelty, by isolation, by pain. Maybe he isn’t a monster at all. Maybe he’s just trying to survive.”