She thought of his words.“Don’t just write about the library.”
So she closed her eyes and let her mind drift away from the towering shelves and the scent of old paper. She thought of the café. The way the light had caught the silver flecks in his grey eyes. The rough texture of his confession. The brief, electric warmth of his touch.
Her hand began to move.
The silence between them was not empty, but full. It was the hum of a live wire strung between two souls, a tension so profound that the clatter of coffee cups seemed to happen in another world. He wore his failure like a shadow, but in the café’s warm light, she saw not a ruined man, but a sculptor, patiently learning the new language of his own rubble.
She stopped, her heart hammering. She had written about him. It felt like a transgression, to capture his private pain and transform it into her prose. And yet, the words felt true. They felt alive in a way her long-abandoned“silly stories” never had.
She had taken the first, trembling step. The page was no longer blank. It held a fragment of a moment, a secret truth about a man who saw her as a raconteuse.
That afternoon in the library, the dynamic had shifted once more. When Luc arrived at his customary time, he didn’t immediately go to his table. He stopped at the counter, his eyes dropping to her bag where the corner of the blue sketchbook was just visible.
“You’ve started,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
A blush warmed her cheeks. She felt exposed, as if he could see the words she had written about him.“I… yes.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a sight that was still rare enough to feel like a gift.“Good.”
He didn’t ask what she had written. He simply seemed satisfied that the gift had been put to use, that the potential he had seen was being realized. He went to his table and opened his own notebook, and the familiar, companionable silence descended.
But today, it was different for Élise. As she went about her work, her mind wasn’t just on the library’s stories. It was on her own. She found herself observing the world with a new, writerly eye—the way the light slanted through the window, the particular curve of Monsieur Deschamps’spectacles as he read, the sound of Luc’s pen, a sound she now knew was the physical manifestation of a man rebuilding himself.
She was no longer just a participant in their story; she was its chronicler. The blue sketchbook in her bag was a secret shared between them, a parallel narrative unfolding alongside his. He was digging into the catacombs of his past, and she was beginning to map the new, uncharted territory of her own heart.
The first line had been written. And as with any great story, the hardest part was over. Now, the narrative had its own momentum.
Chapter 12:
The Unwritten Rule
The rhythm of the week established itself around Luc’s daily visits. The 2:07 PM arrival, the nod, the hours of intense work at the central table. But the silence was no longer a wall between them; it was a shared language. Élise found her gaze drifting to him not with nervous anticipation, but with a quiet sense of belonging. His presence was as much a part of the library’s fabric as the oak shelves and the scent of aging paper.
On Wednesday, however, the rhythm broke.
Two o'clock came and went. Then 2:30. By three, a cold knot of worry had tightened in Élise’s stomach. She replayed their last interaction. Had she been too forward? Had the gift of the sketchbook overstepped an invisible boundary? She checked her phone for messages, though she didn’t have his number. The screen remained stubbornly blank.
The library felt cavernous and hollow without him. The silence was no longer companionable; it was oppressive. Every jingle of the doorbell sent a jolt of hope through her, only for it to be dashed by the entrance of a stranger.
Monsieur Deschamps noticed her distraction.“You are looking for our storm cloud?” he asked mildly, not looking up from a fragile manuscript he was examining.
Élise flushed.“He’s usually here by now.”
“Perhaps the storm has passed,” the old man mused.“Or perhaps it has simply moved elsewhere for a day. Storms are not known for their punctuality, Élise.”
His words were meant to be soothing, but they only amplified her anxiety. Moved elsewhere. The thought was intolerable. What if he wasn’t just late? What if he was gone? The connection that had felt so solid now seemed as fragile as the manuscript in Monsieur Deschamps’hands.
She tried to lose herself in work, cataloging a new donation of travel journals. But her focus was shattered. She found herself staring at the empty chair at the central table, the absence a louder presence than he had ever been.
At 4:15, the bell finally chimed with the specific, decisive ring she had been yearning for all afternoon.
Luc stood in the doorway, his hair windswept, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He looked… harried. His eyes scanned the room and landed on her, and a visible wave of relief washed over his features. He strode towards the counter, his usual measured pace abandoned.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breathless.“A meeting. With a publisher. It ran long, and then the Métro was a nightmare…”
The explanation tumbled out, and the cold knot in Élise’s stomach instantly loosened, replaced by a warm, giddy flood of relief. He wasn’t avoiding her. He had been fighting to get back.
“It’s alright,” she said, her own voice soft with the release of tension.“You don’t have to apologize.”
