Hortus Arcanus Silvae

ACT 1

seat-saving

Outside, the cicadas shriek as though their cries could pierce the ears,

their chorus clashing with the merciless blaze of the sun.

Yet the moment I step into the library, the world changes—

so quiet that even my footsteps seem to echo through the hall.

A cool, gentle air wraps around me,

like a soft veil of shade.

I quicken my pace,

holding my student ID over the sensor at the counter,

and head for the quieter corners—

places where people gather only sparsely.

At last, I reach the desk I had been searching for.

Claiming a seat in the library

has quietly become one of the most important rituals of my day.

In crowded places, my concentration dissolves.

Too much sunlight lures me into sleep,

yet the shade near the air conditioner chills the air too sharply,

leaving me cold and uneasy.

It is, in truth, a delicate balance.

Among all the seats, there is one I cherish most—

a corner desk, the farthest from the library entrance.

Beyond its window spreads the green of the university grounds,

and when the afternoon sun begins its gentle tilt,

the light and leaves weave together

into a scene that feels almost unreal.

I usually arrive there

a little after three in the afternoon.

That is the hour when the view becomes a quiet privilege—

a fleeting moment reserved for those who happen to be there.

Only then does the light fall just so,

casting beauty across the green before my eyes.

For reasons I cannot quite explain,

I find myself unable to look away.

Around my seat, people sit scattered and distant,

chairs spaced apart by two empty ones between them.

At this hour, the sunlight never falls directly on the desk,

and the air conditioner hums far enough away

that its chill cannot reach me.

And perhaps for that very reason,

this place feels as though it was made

exactly for someone like me.