She is not a prisoner. She is a volunteer. And the lock, if there ever was one, is made of ink.

Atrapada en libros. Not trapped. Held.

She didn't fall into books. She walked into them willingly, like a child stepping into a forest she already knew by heart.

Sometimes she tries to leave. She sets the books back on the shelf, neat as headstones. But by midnight, she's cracked one open again—just to check if Anne's diary still ends the same way, if the Count still sails toward England, if the boy with the scar still lives under the stairs.

Now the pages have grown around her like walls. The spines are the ribs of a small, warm cage. She sleeps between paragraphs and wakes to the smell of old paper—vanilla, dust, and the ghost of someone else's pencil marks.