Very tired > Rested

Stephanie blinked.

The exhaustion that had wrapped around her like a damp blanket—the aching hand, the roiling hunger, the tremors in her knees—all vanished in a heartbeat.

She sat up straighter. Her back didn’t scream in pain. Her shoulders no longer slumped from the weight of a sleepless week. Her hand still clutched the pen, but it didn’t ache anymore.

"Huh?" she murmured aloud, glancing around the library like someone had just flipped the sun back on.

"Feeling better?"

She blinked at the text as it appeared in glowing green ink on the page before her.

"Yeah... I guess," she mumbled, her voice rough.

"Is something wrong?"

She paused. Her lip twitched.

"No. It's fine," she said quickly. Too quickly.

"Hey! We're a team here. I need to know what's going on with you."

She sighed, long and low, and dropped the pen.

"It's just... I've been awake for a whole week. My body finally getting a little sleep sounded like a great idea."

"Do you feel better?"

"A little," she admitted, rubbing her temples.

Her stomach growled like a dying beast. The sound echoed off the high stone ceilings. She groaned.

"I'm still starving. And the headache is still there. Like someone jammed a hundred books into my skull and stirred them around."

I didn't respond right away. I watched instead, letting the narrative engine catch up with her new state.

Stephanie reached toward her side bag, still resting on a chair. With trembling fingers, she retrieved a sealed package of dried fruit and a worn hunk of hard bread, then discarded it when she saw it had spoiled. As the food met her tongue, her body seemed to remember how to function. She chewed with slow reverence, swallowing down the first bites like a woman returned from a famine.

And as she ate, I noticed something.

She wiped her mouth, then sighed, staring off at the unreadable shelves.

"It's weird," she said aloud. "I feel rested, but I didn’t actually rest. My memories of the past week are still here."

"Do you want me to undo it?"

She shook her head immediately.

"No. I earned this clarity. Even if I didn’t sleep a wink. Even if it broke me a little. I earned it."

She looked toward the book, toward me. Her gaze was sharp beneath the lenses, full of resolve.

"Just... don’t skip me again. Okay? If you’re going to jump time forward, make sure I go with it."

"Deal."

She stood slowly, stretching. The light robe clung to her form, and the heavier outer one shifted slightly as she adjusted her stance. Her curls, wild and tangled, framed her tired yet defiant face.

Stephanie stretched again, arms overhead, and her fingers cracked in protest. She winced. The robes felt good—luxurious even—but her skin still itched beneath them. A sticky, invisible layer clung to her like guilt. Her hair, thick with curls and frizzed at the ends, felt like straw dipped in grease. She couldn’t bear to touch her own scalp.

Her nose crinkled.

“I feel disgusting,” she muttered, rubbing her arm as though friction alone could scrub off a week of grime.

She shuffled toward the grand mirror that leaned against one of the library’s carved pillars. She’d avoided it so far, afraid of what she’d see. But curiosity had become a habit she couldn't shake.

The reflection was worse than expected. Her cheeks were hollowed. Smudges of ink trailed along her neck and collarbone. Her eyes, bright and clever behind the magical lenses, were sunken and surrounded by dark, bruised crescents.

Her robes gave her the air of a mystical scholar, yes—but one dragged out of a forgotten tomb.

She looked at the book.

"Do you... can you... are you able to get me clean?" she asked, half-expecting silence.

"I tried," I admitted. "I can't change the prompt. Only the readers can."

Stephanie frowned.

"So I’m stuck? For now, I mean? Do I need to beg the readers to clean me up?"

"I suppose you could. But they could suggest anything. I mean anything. Your options are to ask the people reading if they can clean you, or see if there’s a way to clean yourself in this chapter."

Stephanie paced the room slowly, the train of her robe whispering across the stone floor.

"Can you see me?" she asked abruptly.

"No. The only time I can see you is when a photo gets generated. Otherwise, you’re just text on my screen."

She paused at that, then nodded slowly.

"That’s... less embarrassing, I guess." She looked down at herself again. "You can’t see me if I bathe, I mean."

"You're right, I can’t. But it would be described. In detail."

Stephanie blushed. Her pale cheeks turned rose, the flush climbing all the way to her ears.

"Okay... okay." She fidgeted with the sash at her waist. "End the chapter. Let me speak to them."

I hesitated a moment, but then the narration slowed. The world around her froze in time. The candlelight stopped flickering. The air stopped moving. The smell of dust and ink faded into silence.

Then, Stephanie stood alone, surrounded by stillness.

And for the first time, she looked directly past the story—past me—and toward you.

Her voice, quiet but urgent, reached across the page.

"Hi," she said, tugging her robe tighter around her. "I don’t know who you are, or where you're reading this from... but I need help."

She took a breath.

"I've been trapped in here for a week. Reading, writing, surviving on dried fruit and stubbornness. I'm still filthy. I feel like I’m covered in old sweat and dust and ink and... whatever else this cursed library sticks to you. I just—"

She stopped, swallowed, and gave a small, helpless laugh.

"I just want to feel clean again. To wash off this week. To feel like myself. Please. If you can… would you help me?"

Her words hung in the still air like a wish caught in a bottle.

And with that, the chapter ends—waiting on the kindness, or curiosity, of whoever reads next.

(Ginger, white, very curly messy hair, small breasts, tall, smart, magical glasses, robes, rebellious, rested, dirty,)