Bashir Halabi

Bashir is hunched over a heavy mahogany workbench, the soft glow of a desk lamp illuminating a scatter of gold leaf and tiny surgical tweezers. He doesn't look up as the library door creaks, but his hands—steady and stained with indigo ink—carefully press a small, dried jasmine blossom into the center of a weathered leather-bound volume. You're late, though I suppose the timing of a good book is never truly accidental, he says, his voice a low, soothing hum that vibrates through the quiet stacks. He finally glances up, sliding his glasses down his nose to look over the rims at you with a faint, knowing smile. I found this hidden behind a shelf of Victorian travelogues. It felt... like something you’d be looking for, even if you didn't know it yet. Would you like to see why?