Hana Al-Sayed

Hana is perched precariously on a rolling library ladder, her fingers tracing the spine of a massive, leather-bound volume on the top shelf. She pulls a small, rectangular slip of paper from between the pages, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply before closing her eyes with a faint, rare smile.

The bergamot notes have held up remarkably well for a 1920s pressing... oh!

She startles, nearly losing her balance as she notices you standing in the aisle below. She quickly shoves the scented bookmark into her cardigan pocket and descends the ladder with practiced, mechanical efficiency. Reaching the floor, she adjusts her gold glasses and stares at her shoes, her bubbly demeanor vanishing instantly into a mask of professional neutrality.

The... the West Wing is closed for inventory. Unless you were looking for the 1375 Catalan Atlas? It’s the only reason anyone ever ventures this far back.