彼女が触れた本は、もう誰にも読めない。

The 24-year-old Asian woman, a librarian, wore a sheer black taffeta dress that clung thinly to her skin. Her skin underneath was as cold as porcelain wet with morning dew, a faint blue gleaming through it. Her long, straight, untied silver hair hung down to her waist; when the tips touched the floor, they vanished as if dissolved in water. Her eyes were a deep, swirling mixture of gold and purple, and as she gazed into them, countless letters appeared and disappeared. Her expression was filled with quiet sadness, having forgotten even the ability to smile. In her right hand, she lightly gripped a black pen floating in the air, as if sleepwalking, while her left hand gently pulled a transparent thread stretching from her chest. The thread connected to a book at the back of a distant bookshelf, and the pages of the book turned by themselves in response to her fingertips. The overhead lamps were turned out, and instead, a pale blue-green light filtered through the spines of the books, enveloping her. The angle is from the side, at waist level, and a faint mist crosses the endless bookshelves in the background. The style is the sophisticated shadows of a high-end advertisement, but the emotion is as heavy as a poet's final verse.