And right then, humming softly as the dust danced in the light, I made up my mind: I wasn’t going anywhere.
By the time I brushed the last bit of dust from my gloves, the library had gone quiet again.I stood, stretching my back, and turned to tell Mr.Archer that I was heading out, maybe even to thank him for letting me start at all.But the room was empty.
“Mr.Archer?”I called softly, not wanting to disturb the fragile hush that lingered.No answer.
I checked the hall, then the kitchen.Nothing.It was as if the house itself had swallowed him whole.For a moment, nerves fluttered—had I overstepped, had my humming or my smile driven him off?But then I spotted the old fridge, its surface bare except for a couple of magnets holding nothing in place.
I pulled a scrap of paper from my bag, the kind I always kept for lists or quick notes, and scribbled a few words:Thank you for today.I’ll be back tomorrow.I hesitated, then added a little smiley face before pinning it under the magnet.It felt silly, but it was all I had to offer.
Stepping out into the snow, the cold hit me with a rush, sharp and clean.My boots crunched on the frosted path as my mind spun.He was terrifying, yes—but not in the way the town whispered about.Not a monster.Not cruel.Just… closed off.A man who wore his shadows like armor and growled so no one would see the cracks.
I hugged my scarf closer and whispered to myself, “He thinks he can scare me off.He doesn’t know me very well.”
The house loomed behind me, its windows dark, its silhouette sharp against the falling snow.A fortress of shadows, yes.But as I walked to the car, I didn’t see hopelessness.I saw potential.I was already imagining the library bright with light, the dust cleared, the shelves alive again.And maybe—just maybe—the man inside it could be part of that light too.
For the first time since I’d come home, I felt certain.I wasn’t finished here.Not with the library.Not with him.
Chapter4
Charlie
Ifound it on the fridge.A slip of paper tucked under a magnet like it had every right to be there, bright and casual against the rusted metal.
Her handwriting was the first thing I noticed—neat, looping, warm in a way that felt out of place in this house.The kind of script that belonged on Christmas cards or love letters, not here, not in my kitchen where everything was cold and utilitarian.
Thank you for today.I’ll be back tomorrow.A little smiley face at the end, like a child’s doodle.
My chest went tight.
Before I could think, before I could even breathe, I ripped it free and crushed it in my fist.The paper crackled under the pressure, folding in on itself until it was nothing but a ball of wasted cheer.My jaw clenched, teeth grinding hard enough I thought they’d crack.
“Damn fool girl,” I muttered, the words rasping out like gravel.
Anger rose hot, faster than I could contain it.Angry at her politeness, at her cheer, at her sunshine bleeding into corners where it didn’t belong.Angry that she thought she could just leave notes on my fridge like we were neighbors, like she hadn’t stepped into a place full of ghosts and claimed it as her own.
But more than that, I was angry at her for being so unlike the man who raised her.
Her father’s handwriting had been blocky, harsh—every word cut from stone.Orders scribbled in a notebook, letters that read like afterthoughts.Nothing soft about them.Nothing warm.He’d been a man of edges, a man whose smile hid more than it gave.And now here was his daughter, leaving me scraps of light on curling white paper, her kindness as easy as breathing.
I hated it.
I hated how it reminded me there was a world outside these walls, a world that still had sweetness left in it.A world I’d buried myself apart from on purpose.
The crumpled paper burned in my hand.I should’ve thrown it in the fire, let the flames devour it like they’d devoured everything else worth keeping.But instead, I set it on the counter and stared at it, breathing hard, my own reflection glaring back at me in the dark window over the sink.
“She’ll be back tomorrow,” I muttered.The thought twisted my gut.Part fury, part something I didn’t want to name.
I told myself I wouldn’t open the door next time.That I’d send her away, make her regret ever knocking.But even as I said it, I knew I’d hear that knock again, and I knew damn well I’d answer.
Because no matter how much I hated that note, I hated the silence it left behind even more.
She should’ve been easy to hate.That was what I told myself as I sat there, staring at the crumpled note on the counter.She should’ve had her father’s arrogance, that smug way he carried himself like the world owed him something.She should’ve had his selfishness too, that knack for twisting loyalty into betrayal, for putting his own hide above anyone else’s.Hell, she should’ve had his cruelty—the same sharp edge that cut deeper than any enemy ever could.
If she’d been like him, I could’ve hated her clean.Simple.No second thoughts.
But she wasn’t.
She walked into my house with those bright eyes, full of light, looking at me without flinching, without pity.No darting glance at my scars, no quick grimace before plastering on a smile.She just… smiled, easy and genuine, like I wasn’t the monster the town had painted me.
