She didn’t know the truth.About the fire.About the betrayal.About how I’d been left standing alone with nothing but scars and silence.If she did, she’d run like everyone else.
But there was another part of me, traitorous and quiet, that whispered different.That part said shedidbelong here.That her humming carols under her breath, her soft smile in the face of my growl, her steady hands on my books—they fit in this space better than I ever had.That her presence felt… right.
I ground my teeth hard, shutting the thought down before it could take root.Right?Nothing about this was right.This house was no place for sunshine.This library wasn’t meant for anyone else’s hands.I wouldn’t let her twist my sanctuary into something it wasn’t.
And I damn sure wouldn’t let her tear open wounds that never healed.
So I stood there, jaw locked, clinging to the only truth I could stomach: she didn’t belong.Shecouldn’t.
Because if she did—if I let myself believe that—I wasn’t sure I’d survive it.
Without warning, she turned to me, holding up a book as if it were something precious, the dust brushed carefully from its spine.“This one’s beautiful,” she said, her voice soft, casual, kind.Like she was just talking to a neighbor, not a scarred-up wreck who wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
“Put it back,” I muttered, sharper than I intended.My words cut through the stillness like a blade, meant to shut her down before she could pry further.
She didn’t even blink.Just nodded, set the book gently aside, and moved on to the next stack like my tone hadn’t meant a damn thing.
That stoked something ugly in me.
So when she asked a question a few minutes later—something simple about the way the shelves leaned, or how I’d come by so many volumes—I gave her nothing but the shortest, curtest answers.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Not important.”
“Leave it.”
My voice was gravel, my words blunt.I wanted to make it clear she had no place in this space beyond the job.
But she didn’t flinch.Didn’t retreat.Didn’t even lose the light in her voice.She just nodded, murmured an “okay,” and carried on, humming faintly under her breath while her hands sorted my ghosts as if they weren’t poison.
And that made me angrier than anything else.
Why wouldn’t she take the hint?Why wouldn’t she turn away like every other soul in this town had learned to do?That was the deal—I growled, they fled.That was how I kept the shadows intact, how I kept my solitude from splintering under the weight of too many memories.
But not her.
She moved through my house like she belonged here, like the dust and the silence and the scars didn’t scare her at all.And every time she smiled or nodded or hummed, it chipped at the armor I’d spent years forging.
I clenched my jaw, fists tight at my sides, fury clawing through me not because she was cruel, but because she wasn’t.
I wanted her gone.Needed her gone.Because if she stayed, if she kept moving through these shadows like she could bring light into them, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold the darkness together.
Chapter5
Belle
The library was colder than I expected, but the moment I stepped inside, I felt myself relax in a way I hadn’t in days.It was messy, yes—stacks leaning dangerously on tables, towers of books waiting to topple with the slightest nudge—but it felt like a place I understood.A place I could make sense of.I settled into the rhythm quickly, moving from pile to pile like this was my second home.
Outside, snow tapped lightly against the windowpanes, the steady hush of winter wrapping around the house.Inside, my humming filled the silence, soft and familiar, the same tune Grandma always sang when she worked.It steadied me as I brushed dust from covers and shifted stacks into neater rows.Every so often, I caught myself smiling—because I was still here.He hadn’t scared me off, no matter how sharp his words had been.
I was proud of that.A little defiant, even.Each time I picked up another book, each step deeper into this collection, I felt like I was unlocking a piece of him.
I pulled a notebook from my bag and began taking careful notes.Title, author, condition.Cracked spine, torn jacket, faint smell of smoke.My handwriting filled the page in looping lines, my enthusiasm carrying me from one volume to the next.The work didn’t feel like a chore; it felt like discovery.
Because this wasn’t just a library—it was a life.Whoever Charlie Archer really was, he’d poured himself into these shelves.His hands had turned these pages, his nights had been lit by the glow of these words.The dust wasn’t just neglect; it was history.
As I worked, I couldn’t help but wonder about the man behind it all.The one who loomed in the doorway with scars carved into his skin and silence braced like armor.The town whispered about him like he was a monster, dangerous and bitter, but I wasn’t so sure.I’d seen his eyes when he barked those warnings at me—they weren’t cruel.They were haunted.
