This quiet acceptance, like the damage didn’t scare her, like she saw a man and not the monster the town painted?That was dangerous.That dug under my armor where nothing belonged.
“Mr.Archer?”she asked, voice warm, clear.
I should’ve barked at her, told her to turn around.Instead, I just stood there, the cold air bleeding into the house, staring at the girl who wasn’t a girl anymore.
She looked like light daring to step into my shadows.And I hated how part of me wanted to let her in.
Chapter3
Belle
The morning I was supposed to head over to Mr.Archer’s, my stomach twisted like I’d swallowed a snow globe.Every thought scattered and swirling, refusing to settle.I tried to laugh it off, but Mom noticed the second I came down the stairs.She always did.
She was standing at the counter, pouring coffee into her chipped mug, when she glanced up at me.“You don’t have to do this, Belle,” she said gently.“Charlie Archer hasn’t been the same since the war.People say he’s… well, different.Maybe it’d be best to let someone else handle the library.”
Her words didn’t make me feel any better.If anything, they made the nerves worse, pressing like cold air against my chest.But underneath it all, I felt something else, too.A pull.Determination.
I smoothed my scarf and forced a smile.“Mom, Dad went to war with him.They fought side by side.If I can’t at least meet him, then who can?I just… I want to see for myself.”
Grandma shuffled in then, slippers whispering across the floor.She always seemed to show up at the exact moment I needed backup.“Your father thought the world of Charlie Archer,” she said firmly, looking at Mom as much as me.“He came back scarred, sure, but who wouldn’t?He’s a good man.The best.People forget that too easily.”
Her words settled something inside me.Nervous as I was, I couldn’t let rumors write the story for me.
“I’ll take the car,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.My hands shook just a little as I grabbed the keys.
Outside, the world looked dipped in powdered sugar, snow piling high along the sidewalks, glittering in the pale morning light.I climbed into Grandma’s old sedan, the leather seat cold against my legs, and started the engine.The radio crackled to life with cheerful Christmas music—something about bells and sleigh rides.Normally it would’ve made me sing along, but today it only made my nerves sharper, jangling like the carols themselves were impatient.
The tires crunched over the snow as I eased down the street, careful, both hands gripping the wheel tighter than they needed to.My breath puffed little clouds in the chill before the heater sputtered awake.Driving in the snow had never been my favorite, and I caught myself praying under my breath that the roads stayed clear.
But still, even with my heart beating too fast, I kept going.Because curiosity was stronger than fear.Because compassion pressed me forward.Because somewhere under the weight of the whispers, I wanted to believe Mr.Archer wasn’t the monster people painted him to be.
The music swelled, the snow fell, and I told myself this was more than just a drive.This was the first step toward something that mattered.
The drive up the winding road felt longer than I expected, and when I finally turned the corner and saw the house, my breath caught.It was bigger than I’d imagined, looming against the snow-dusted pines, its roof heavy with years and its windows dark like watchful eyes.The clapboard siding was weathered to gray, and the porch sagged a little as if tired of holding secrets.For a moment, I just sat in Grandma’s old sedan with the engine ticking, clutching the wheel, surprised that something so grand could also look so lonely.
My stomach fluttered as I climbed out, boots crunching against the frozen gravel.Every step toward the porch made my nerves sharper, my scarf doing little to muffle the cold air stinging my cheeks.I thought about all the whispers I’d heard, all the warnings, but I pressed forward anyway.Pausing at the door, I smoothed my gloves, gathered every ounce of courage I had, and raised my hand.The knock echoed through the quiet like it was daring me not to run.
My knuckles were still tingling from the knock when the door creaked open.For a second, the cold air rushed around me, and then—there he was.
Charlie Archer.
He filled the doorway like a shadow, tall, scarred, his frame worn down but still solid.His presence hit me harder than the wind ever could.His face carried the kind of marks you didn’t get from clumsy accidents or childhood falls.No, these were earned somewhere far away, under a sun hotter than ours, carved deep by battles no one here in Holly Ridge could imagine.
I forced myself not to stare, not to let my gaze linger too long on the map of pain written across his skin.Instead, I met his eyes.And in that instant, I thought—he looks like a man built of stone, but his eyes are still burning coals.
His voice came low, rough, like gravel dragged across steel.“You won’t last an hour.”
The words were sharp enough to slice, designed to draw blood.He said them like a promise, like a warning.I felt my spine straighten on instinct.
Then came the second blow: “Don’t touch anything you don’t understand.”
I could almost hear the unspokenand you won’t understand any of it.
My heart thudded against my ribs, but I didn’t let it show.Because I knew this trick.I’d seen people lash out to keep others away—at the library where I volunteered in college, in classrooms where I tutored kids who’d learned to scowl before they’d ever learned to trust.The armor was always the same: words meant to cut, eyes meant to scare.
And behind it?Always the same thing too.Fear.Hurt.Loneliness.
So instead of flinching, I lifted my chin.My scarf slipped a little down my shoulder, and I felt the winter air bite at my skin, but I refused to shiver.“Good thing I’m not easily scared,” I said lightly, my voice steadier than I felt.
