Not Reading, Just Counting Dust Motes

In an old European library beneath a tall arched window, a quiet young woman sits with open books scattered around her, dust motes drifting through the sunlight that spills across the pages. Her dark hair is loosely pinned up, a pair of thin gold-rimmed glasses resting low on her nose, and she wears a cream cable-knit sweater. One fingertip slowly traces a line of text on the page, her expression calm and softly focused — serene, intelligent, unhurried by time.