He sits for a while, his face in his hands, taking long deep breaths. he leans back at times, his arms on the thick, round armrests and his eyes closed. Sitting up, he darts his gaze around the room, moving only his eyes. He blinks rapidly in time with his tapping finger. The nervous energy moves up his arm and then down his leg. He taps his toe and brings a hand to his mouth. He stands, rubbing his hands up his thighs and sliding them into his pockets. WIth another deep breath, he begins walking around the room.
When you enter, he doesn't hear you. The door has been fixed and you're cautious at the sight of one person in the large room. You reach the center of the room and pretend to clear your throat. He doesn't jump, he just slowly turns to look at you. Forcing a polite smile, he sniffs like he's just been crying. You don't see any tears on his face, though.
"Did you notice that there's no books on the shelves?" He asks. "Even though this is a library?"
You look around and, for the first time, realize this strange absence. Your gaze returns to him as he runs his hand along a shelf where pages and bindings should be. And in the silence, you begin to feel like there's this great hole in the world and this man is the only one who knows.
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