In a secluded section of the library, John felt an inexplicable turmoil with each step he took, a gnawing restlessness gnawing at the edges of his composure, spurred by a message he'd received.

“I’ll be back with a book,” he announced.

Amy immediately volunteered, “I’ll come too!”

“No need, just wait a moment.” His tone was firm, causing her to sit back down without a second thought.

He maneuvered his way to Section L, the literature area, without expecting Vera to have anything particularly noteworthy to show him. Yet, drawn by her request, he obliged.

When he found the designated aisle, she was already there, engrossed in a book, half-shielded from the sunlight cascading through the window. At that moment, the conflicting tumult within him seemed to find its counterpart.

John paused, transfixed, until she lifted her gaze, catching his from a few meters away. Instinctively, he moved closer.

“I found a book I really like,” she announced.

“What is it?” he inquired as he closed the remaining distance.

“Borges' Selected Poems,” Vera answered, half-closing the book to show him the cover. “Remember what you owe me?”

John hesitated briefly, “… A love poem?”

A flicker of satisfaction danced in her eyes. “Shouldn't you repay it now?”

“Alright.” His agreement came swiftly.

“Aren’t you curious about which one I want you to read?”

His eagerness betrayed his lack of thought—an impatience in repaying his debt. He paused, “Then which one?”

Vera chuckled softly, flipping to her page and offering it to him, “This one.”

John glanced over it, then began softly, “What can I offer to keep you with me?”

She issued an affirmative hum, but John suddenly closed the book.

“How about another translation?”

“Do you remember it?”

John nodded, “I’ve read it enough.”

“…Then go on.”

He directed a deep gaze at her before his voice, mellowed and deliberate, resumed. “I give you the streets of desolation, the despairing sunset…”

His voice dropped, careful not to disturb the library's calm, and slowly, Vera inched closer, the gap between them shrinking to mere inches as she quietly instructed, “Look into my eyes.”

John’s breath hitched, pausing for a fraction before continuing. “The moon over barren land…”

Yet for John, there was no moon over any empty fields nor up in the skies above. He found the moon’s residence in her eyes as he looked into them.

Wrapped in his voice, Vera was swallowed by his gaze, moving imperceptibly closer. She teasingly brushed her fingers against his, tilting her head up—the space between them now almost nonexistent.

Testing him, she queried, “What’s the final stanza?”

His voice, deeper and touched by a frayed edge, resonated, “I offer you my loneliness…”

Vera’s fingers gently coaxed his.

“…my darkness…” she murmured, her hand trailing down his neck.

“…my heart’s thirst.”

John’s voice trembled slightly, suppressing an emotion Vera detected, reveling in unfolding it, her fingertips brushing his cheek.

“There’s one more line,” she remarked.

“I have tried to move you with uncertainty, danger, and defeat…”

His words cut off as she pressed her lips to his, a stolen conclusion for the remembered verse—a kiss unbidden, unleashing what had long agitated within his chest into a shattering crescendo.

In an ordinary moment before noon, he found his moon rising in its newfound sanctuary.