Every Thursday for forty years, Mr. Kabir borrowed the same book.

It was a cloth-bound copy of Aranyak, its spine faded to the colour of weak tea. He would arrive at ten, sign the register in a slow, upright hand, and leave without a word.

The librarians had theories. He was writing a thesis. He was in love with the forest. He had promised someone, long ago, that he would finish it.

Then one Thursday, he didn't come.

Inside the book, when they finally opened it, was a pressed sal leaf and a note: For whoever reads this next. It's better the second time. It's best the fortieth.