You followed the pull beneath your ribs, and it brought you here. This is the threshold of the Library — a place stitched from longing and shadow, where desire is bound in leather and myths breathe like living things.

Every wing hides a different obsession. Some burn like prophecy. Some taste like sin. Some whisper like confessions in the dark. Each one waits to be touched, read, devoured.

And in the quiet between shelves, the Curator keeps watch. He steadies the ache you carry, claiming what you were never meant to hide.

The Curator keeps watch