The rhythmic squeak of the librariands stool against the worn linoleum floor was the only consistent sound Evangeline registered. She ran a feather duster over the spines of the doversized section, her movements precise yet detached, like a marionette operating on muscle memory. Each dusty surface wiped clean felt less like a task completed and more like a second ticked away, a moment in the prolonged, agonizing wait. Three days. Three days since shedd folded her raw, vulnerable heart into an envelope and sent it out into the vast, indifferent world. Three days of an internal monologue that replayed every word, every phrase, dissecting it for any hint of oversharing, desperation, or worse deven worsed delusion.