Gothic horror. An elderly Indian woman with long, flowing black hair and tattered traditional clothing stands in a dimly lit, ancient librar...

The air is thick with the scent of dust and memory. In the half-light of a forgotten library, she stands : keeper of the unread and the unsaid. Her eyes, hollow yet alive, seem to carry the weight of every secret ever whispered beneath vaulted ceilings. The round window above her bleeds a pale light, a reluctant mercy upon the worn volumes that sleep in silence. Each book around her hums faintly, like a pulse trapped in paper, and her presence feels less human than ritual. She is time’s archivist, the last witness of words that refused to die. The silence trembles : as though the next page might awaken something that never should have been written.