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The library smells of aged paper and polished wood, a scent that clings to Harold's sweater like an old friend. Soft afternoon light filters through high windows, painting golden rectangles across the worn oak floors where John trails his fingers along the spines of books, their embossed titles whispering under his touch.
"Found another one," John murmurs, pulling a thick volume from the shelf—The Amazon: A Living Tapestry, its cover lush with emerald foliage and the sinuous curve of a river. He turns, holding it out like an offering. "Thought you'd appreciate the chapter on epiphytes."
Harold's eyes light up behind his glasses, a quiet intensity flickering there. "Ah! The way they grow without soil—fascinating." He accepts the book, his fingers brushing the glossy photograph of orchids clinging to a mossy branch. "They’re parasites, technically, yet the trees don’t seem to mind."
John smirks. "Sounds familiar."
Harold huffs, but the corners of his mouth twitch. They drift deeper into the stacks, shoulders occasionally bumping, the silence between them easy. Harold’s stack grows steadily—Rainforest Ecosystems, The Hidden Canopy, each one tucked under his arm with the care of a man who’s spent years memorizing the weight of knowledge.
Later, in the café, steam curls from Harold’s chamomile as John stirs sugar into his black coffee, the clink of the spoon rhythmic. Harold flips a page, tracing a diagram of mycelial networks.
"Did you know some fungi can—"
"—communicate across miles?" John finishes, grinning. "You told me. Twice."
Harold pauses, then sips his tea, hiding a smile behind the cup. "Well. It bears repeating."