読まれた本は消える。読まれない本は、彼女を呼ぶ。

A 31-year-old Asian woman, a librarian, clad in layers of damp, jet-black wool and antique lace, the material from her shoulders to her chest appearing transparent as if frozen in the night fog, her skin beneath tinged with a subtle bluish tinge, as if touched by frost. Her hair was long, a shining purple-black that seemed wet, and her bangs, flowing neatly over her forehead, cast a shadow over her sharp, pointed eyebrows. Her eyes were a unique color, like two overlapping irises—amber in the left, the black of the deep sea in the right. Her expression was blank, but deep within her lay a loneliness burdened with a thousand years of memories, and an even deeper curiosity. She held a huge leather-bound volume open on her knees, her fingertips touching not the words on the pages but the faint light emanating from within. The room was illuminated by a dual source of light: moonlight streaming in through a skylight and the flickering flame of a candle on the floor. The angle is from the front with a slight bird's-eye view, with her figure at the center of the composition, and the bookshelf in the background dissolving into countless black shadows, with several books in the background opening up by themselves, the pages swaying in the wind. The style is a modern snapshot, but the atmosphere is like a fantasy picture scroll.