“Thank you,” I typed. “I couldn’t have done this without your help.”
“You executed the repair correctly,”he replied, which I chose to interpret as “you’re welcome.”
Feeling bold from my success, I added: “So, tell me more about your project with the interconnected passageways. Sounds fascinating.”
Again, that notable pause before his reply.
“It is complex. The design must be both functional and intricate. Each passageway must connect properly while maintaining structural integrity.”
Still vague, still impersonal. Yet something about the way he described it—the emphasis on complexity and intricacy—sparked my imagination.
“Sounds like you’re building a labyrinth,”I joked.
The response took so long I’d packed up the tools and was ready to leave before it came:
“Similar in some aspects.”
I stared at my phone, a strange shiver running down my spine. There was something about that answer—so careful, so measured, yet revealing more than perhaps he intended.
Who builds something “similar” to a labyrinth? An escape room designer? A maze architect for one of those corn fields? A video game level designer?
Or maybe I was reading too much into a simple text exchange, projecting mystery and intrigue onto what was probably a mundane construction project.
The next morning,I arrived at the library early, eager to test my newly reinforced ladder. I set it up carefully beside the mythology section, took a deep breath, and began to climb.
The difference was immediately noticeable. Where before the ladder had wobbled alarmingly with each step, now it felt solid, reliable. The cross-bracing held firm, distributing my weight evenly across the structure.
I reached the second-highest rung—the point where I’d usually start feeling like I was taking my life in my hands—and found myself still feeling secure. Emboldened, I climbed to the very top, stretching to arrange the mythological creatures display on the highest shelf.
“Norse gods on the left, Greek in the center, Eastern deities on the right,” I murmured to myself, carefully positioning each book. “Dragons get their own section because they’re cross-cultural and also because dragons.”
The ladder held steady throughout my arranging and rearranging. No ominous creaking, no heart-stopping wobbles. Just solid, dependable support.
When I finally climbed down, having completed the top shelf of the display, I felt a rush of gratitude towards my mysterious text correspondent. I pulled out my phone and typed:
“It worked! The ladder feels completely different—stable and secure. I just shelved the entire Norse pantheon without fearing for my life once. Thank you, Rion.”
His reply came as I was setting up the circulation desk:
“Good. The repair is temporary. You will still need a permanent solution.”
Always practical, always focused on the problem at hand. Yet I couldn’t help but feel there was a note of satisfaction in his response—or perhaps I was just projecting, wanting him to share in my small victory.
“I know,” I replied. “But this buys me time to figure out a long-term plan. My boss might actually approve a new ladder if I can show him detailed safety concerns with proper terminology, which I’ve now learned from you.”
I hesitated, then added:“I feel like I owe you a coffee or something for all your help.”
The suggestion hung there, a tentative bridge extended across the digital divide between us. An invitation, however casual, to move this strange relationship from text messages to real life.
The reply, when it finally came, was characteristically terse:
“Unnecessary.”
Just that. One word that effectively closed the door I’d cautiously opened.
I felt a twinge of disappointment, followed by curiosity. Why the reluctance? Most people would at least offer a polite excuse—too busy, maybe another time, etc. But Rion’s response contained no social cushioning, no attempt to soften the refusal.
“Well, the offer stands if you ever change your mind,”I wrote back, trying to keep my tone light.“In the meantime, I’m genuinely grateful for your help.”
