Inside, the place was alive with chatter.Long folding tables sagged under the weight of cookies and paper plates, and a coffee urn hissed in the corner while neighbors hugged, laughed, and shook off the cold.It was so warm and bustling that for a moment; I forgot the knot of nerves in my stomach.
I found a seat near the back, cookie in hand, as Mrs.Haversham, head of the town council, clapped her hands for attention.Her voice carried easily over the din.
“All right, everyone, thank you for coming.As you know, this year’s Christmas fundraiser will include our annual charity auction and holiday drive.But,” her eyes twinkled behind her glasses, “we’ve had a very… unexpected donation.”
The room hushed, and I leaned forward, crumbs clinging to my mittens.
“Mr.Archer,” she said, pausing for effect.“He has agreed to donate his entire private library to the cause.”
Gasps rippled through the room.My own eyebrows shot up.I’d heard whispers about his collection since I was a girl—rows upon rows of rare books, hidden away in that creaky old house on the edge of town.
Of course, the awe quickly shifted into murmurs.
“Not him.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“Doesn’t like visitors.”
Mrs.Haversham sighed.“The catch is that the collection is… well, entirely unorganized.Someone will need to catalogue and prepare it for transport.”
The murmurs grew louder.I heard words like “scarred,” “bitter,” “not worth the trouble.”
I bit my lip.Dangerous?Or just… misunderstood?I thought of those books, waiting in dusty silence, and something inside me stirred.Before I could talk myself out of it, I raised my hand.“I’ll do it.”
The room went silent.Even the coffee urn seemed to stop hissing.
“Belle,” Mrs.Haversham said slowly, her brows knitting.“First of all, it's so good to see you back.Thank you for being here.Having said this, you’re too sweet for this job.Mr.Archer isn’t… well, he isn’t easy.You’ll regret it.”
I shook my head, heart pounding but voice steady.“I love books.I grew up in the library, remember?Someone has to help, and I don’t see why it can’t be me.If this is for the town, then I want to do my part.”
There were sighs, a few doubtful shakes of heads, but no one else volunteered.
I sat back, cheeks warm, a strange mix of nerves and excitement fluttering in my chest.Dangerous or not, Mr.Archer’s library was waiting—and so, I suspected, was something else I hadn’t yet named.
When I was younger, I used to overhear the whispers.The grown-ups thought we children weren’t listening, but of course we were.
“The war changed him.”
“Don’t go near that house.”
“Poor man, but best left alone.”
The words had always carried a strange weight, like warnings told in hushed voices around a campfire.
I’d never seen much of him myself—just the occasional glimpse of a tall shadow slipping from a truck into his front door before dusk.But I remembered his house vividly.It stood on the edge of town, where the pines pressed close and the snow seemed to linger longer.Its windows were always dark, like eyes that refused to meet yours, and its roof leaned under the weight of too many winters.When I was a girl, it had looked less like a home and more like a secret.
Most people shivered at the sight of it.I remember friends daring one another to sprint up the walkway on Halloween, convinced he’d chase us off.But I never joined those games.Instead of fear, I’d always felt something else.A pull.As if the loneliness in that house mirrored something I didn’t yet understand in myself.
Now, walking past the familiar streets toward my own worn-down home, I felt it again—stronger, clearer.Not dread, but curiosity.And more than that, compassion.What must it be like, to live behind dark windows while the rest of the town strung their porches with golden lights?To hear your name spoken in murmurs but never in welcome?
The others could call him bitter or dangerous, but I wasn’t afraid.Somehow, I believed there was more to Mr.Archer than scars and silence.And if his library was as vast as the rumors claimed, maybe the books weren’t the only things waiting to be discovered inside that lonely house.
Chapter2
Charlie
Word got to me the way it always did in Holly Ridge—through mouths that couldn’t stay shut.I wasn’t in the council hall when they laid it out, no sir.But I didn’t need to be.A knock from the mail carrier that lingered too long, a neighbor who suddenly found reason to rake his leaves in the snow while casting glances toward my porch… the signs were all there.And then came the words, slipped through with all the subtlety of gossip in a one-horse town: someone was coming to “help” with my library.
