Emma looked up at the façade. The shop was wedged between two taller buildings, much smaller than the one where she’d done her reading—exactly the kind of bookstore that reminded her why she loved books and stories in the first place. Warm lamplight glowed from inside, a softer gold than anything else on the street.
She edged closer, tugging the brim of her cap lower. Through the window, she saw them—a messy circle of girls on the floor, propped up on colorful pillows. Some cross-legged, some sprawled with pastel-colored tea mugs beside them. Someone passed around a Tupperware of cookies.
It was imperfect, homemade—heartbreakingly sincere.
Two girls approached from behind her, their voices loud across the empty street. Emma angled herself away, pretending to check her phone. They were too deep in their conversation to notice her, anyway.
“I swear to god,” one of them said, “if this turns into a gossip fest, I’m out of here. This is supposed to be about the book.”
“Maddie’s moderating tonight,” her friend said, tucking curly hair behind her ear. “She’ll keep it on topic.”
The girls opened the door, the old-fashioned bell chiming softly. Emma acted on impulse, slipping in behind them. They barely seemedto notice, and no one in the circle turned. Already too caught up in their discussion, voices layered, books open, hands gesturing.
Emma ducked to the side, tucking herself behind a shelf of crime novels. Unease stirred as she watched the group. It felt wrong. Intrusive. Spying on strangers, who had no idea she was standing there.
If they knew what a walking disaster I am, they wouldn’t be sitting here.
She turned back, her hand twitching toward the door.
“Okay,” a woman in her early twenties said, with an authoritative note in her voice. Maddie, perhaps. “So we keep coming back to Lucen, and trust me, I get that—” A few scattered giggles rose from the group. “But what about Catlyn? Our heroine? Anyone want to share their thoughts about her?”
Emma hesitated. She should leave.
She really should.
She didn’t.
“I can start,” one girl said shyly, hugging a dog-eared copy ofThe Bonds of Lightto her chest. “So, my parents separated while I was readingThe Bonds of Light. They were both hurting a lot, so it was hard for me to watch.
“But I kept reading. And when I needed it the most, Catlyn always rose to the occasion. She’s not perfect. She makes bad decisions sometimes. But she keeps fighting. Keeps coming back.
“And somehow, that made me feel less powerless. That I, too, could choose how I reacted, even when things were hard. And that I was allowed to try again, even if I didn’t get it right from the start.”
“I know,” another replied eagerly. “She doesn’t wait to be rescued. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself. Even when everything is stacked against her, she keeps choosing. She doesn’t let anyone tell her what her story is. She makes her own path.”
Emma’s eyes burned. Her fingers curled around the shelf until her knuckles ached.
“She’s scared, like...all the time,” another girl added softly. The one with the curly hair that Emma had followed inside. “But she still keeps going. I don’t have that kind of courage. But Catlyn makes me feel that it’s possible. That one day, maybe I will.”
Emma closed her eyes. For a moment, she was fourteen again—cross-legged on her bed in Minneapolis, devouring battered paperbacks with their covers nearly torn off.
How clearly she remembered the rare, holy shock of seeing herself reflected in someone else’s story. The feeling of words reaching into her, touching emotions she hadn’t even known she could feel. Fear. Love. Friendship. Grief. Betrayal.
Longing.
The longing for a different world—for excitement, adventure, formore. To be part of something big, and terrifying, and wonderful. It was fantasy, but it had felt real. Because when she closed the book, sitting breathless on her quilted bedspread, she’d actually been there. She had laughed and cried and lived through it all, even if only inside her own mind.
Somewhere between the panels and interviews, Darren’s smile and Leah’s warning words, she had forgotten that. Forgotten the only thing that had ever really mattered.
It wasn’t about the success. Or the book sales. Or the spotlight. It wasn’t about Darren, even if the fantasy of him as Lucen had carried her through the hardest parts.
It was about them. The girls on the floor. The girl she used to be.
And maybe—just maybe—for the woman she was still trying to become. One who didn’t just want to be safe, or right, or good enough in everybody else’s eyes.
One who wanted to be true to herself—and brave enough to act on it.
Her chest tightened, but not in the crushing way it had before. This time, it made her stand a little straighter. Their words stitched something back together inside her, fragile but real.
