∰ ╾ his footfalls echo off of polished hard wood,
a book cradled in his hands though cyan
blue squints to see the fine black print. the
curtains are drawn at this hour, blocking out
what little light remained as the sun
descended on the horizon. he's always
hated this particular corridor.
not only was it lacking a buffer of sound, a
carpet of the some kind to prevent sound
from ricocheting sharply off of the walls
( something which made sneaking in and
out of the library tricky unless you decided
to forgo the shoes ), but the lighting was
awful. terrible on the eyes and without a
sense of quiet -- maybe he was irrational
to pitch a fit about a hallway.
however, that didn't mean he kept his trap
shut at dinner when he managed to get a
word in. but there are much more
important things to be pissy over
( vanessa's words, not his ), and he's
really not in the mood to work himself up
over it so close to supper.
so he'll lift his thumb from the page he
was scanning, pinching at the bridge
of his nose with a sigh. in short, he
was exhausted, fatigued from a day
of doing a whole lot of nothing. but as
he clicks down the corridor, he's not
tired enough to overlook the flickering
shadow from the corner of his eye.
pausing, he looks to his left, a soft
frown settled onto his face.