In one photo, she was mid-laugh, her head thrown back, a book clutched to her chest. I couldn't remember what story had made her laugh like that. Couldn't remember if I'd even asked.
What do I do?I wanted to ask her so badly.
I imagined her voice, not as it was in my memory, but as it would be now: direct, a little impatient, with that eyebrow raised.
'You're still punishing her, Jack.'
"It's justice," I argued. My voice sounded strange in the empty room, too loud and too certain.
'It's a waste. Look at what she's done here. With our daughter. With my dream. Does this look like the work of someone who doesn't care?'
I did look around. Really looked, observing every new addition Anna had made. I saw the newly organized shelves, labeled with little symbols for reading level, animals for the youngest readers, stars for intermediate, and rockets for advanced. Elena had always meant to do that, had sketched out ideas in the margins of her notebooks. Anna had done it.
I saw the fresh artwork on the walls, rotated regularly, so every child who participated got their moment of pride displayed. I saw the cheerful new beanbag chairs in the reading nooks, purchased with funds I hadn't allocated. Anna had secured donations. Fromwhere, I didn't know. I'd been too focused on paperwork to ask.
I saw the donation tracker, noticeably higher than it had been weeks ago. Climbing toward goals Elena had set but never got the chance to reach. The thermometer drawing was filled in with red marker, creeping up toward the top. Someone had added gold stars around the higher numbers.
Celebration. Hope.
This wasn't just maintenance or preservation. This was a revival. And it had Anna Stewart's fingerprints all over it.
The front door opened, breaking the spell. Margaret bustled in, her arms full of craft supplies. She jumped when she saw me, nearly dropping everything, then her eyes softened, taking in my rumpled clothes, the fact that I was here an hour early, sitting in Elena's chair.
"Mr. Spencer! You're here… and early."
"Jack," I corrected automatically, the formality feeling wrong in this space. "I needed to look things over."
Her kind eyes understood. She didn't ask what I was looking over, didn't push. She'd seen enough in her life to recognize a man at war with himself. "Well, the troops will be arriving soon. We've got a full house today for storytime, thanks to Anna. And Emma Reed is coming by to finalize plans for the benefit reading next month."
Emma Reed. The teacher who helps organize thechildren's show. Another person who knew and loved Elena and is fighting to continue her work.
Margaret set her supplies on a craft table and began unpacking them: Construction paper in every color, safety scissors, and glue sticks. "That girl has been a godsend, Jack. Truly." She glanced up at me, her weathered hands stilling. "I know this hasn't been easy. Letting someone new into Elena's space. But what Anna's done here... Elena would be so proud."
The words hit their mark. I felt them land within me, sharp and true.
"Would she?" I asked, still doubting if I was doing things right.
Margaret straightened, wiping her hands on her kitten cardigan. She studied me for a long moment, the way she might study a child struggling with a difficult concept. Then she moved closer, settling herself against the edge of the craft table.
"You want to know what I think Elena would say?" Her voice was gentle. "I think she'd tell you that grief is supposed to soften over time, not calcify. That holding onto anger is just another way of holding on to her, but it's the wrong way."
She gestured around the room. "This place was never supposed to be a monument, Jack. It was supposed to be messy and loud and alive. Elena built this for children who needed to know that adults show up, that stories matter, and that someone cares. She didn't care about perfection. She cared about presence."
Margaret picked up a piece of red construction paper, turning it over in her hands.
“Anna shows up. Every single day she's scheduled, and sometimes on days she's not. She stays late helping kids who struggle. She brings books from the library on her own dime because she noticed a child who loves dinosaurs. She remembers names, faces, and which story each child loved best."
She set the paper down. "That's not someone trying to erase Elena's memory. That's someone honoring it in the only way that matters, by continuing the work."
Before I could respond, the door opened again.
As if summoned by the thought, Anna arrived. She came in quietly, dressed in simple jeans and a soft green sweater that made her eyes look warmer. Her long dark hair was in a loose braid. She carried a tote bag overflowing with books and homemade puppet-making supplies.
My heart skipped a beat. She looked happy. Relaxed. Like she belonged here.
She saw me and stopped short, that happiness draining away, replaced by wary surprise.
"Jack. I didn't expect to see you here."
