I added the cake and book emojis on impulse, wondering if a bookstore café might be more comfortable for him than a regular coffee shop. Somewhere quiet, with fewer people.
His reply came a few minutes later, after I’d unlocked the library and started booting up the computers.
Somewhere quiet would be preferable.
I stared at the house emoji for a good thirty seconds, my heart doing a little flip. In all our previous exchanges, Rion had never once used an emoji. Not a single one. This tiny digital housefelt monumental, like he’d handed me a small gift wrapped in significance.
I texted back quickly:
I know just the place. The Book Nook on Maple Street has a little café inside. It’s usually pretty empty on weekday afternoons.
His response was almost immediate:
That sounds suitable. I’ll meet you there at 3 on Thursday.
A thumbs up emoji! I felt ridiculously pleased, like I’d witnessed some rare natural phenomenon. Rion, master architect and minotaur, was using emojis. With me.
The day passed in a blur of reshelving, helping patrons, and cataloging new arrivals. During a quiet moment in the afternoon, I found myself texting Rion again—something I wouldn’t have done before our library encounter.
You won’t believe what just happened. A patron asked me if we had any “non-fiction books about unicorns” because her daughter needs them for a “scientific report.” I showed her our mythology section, and she said that wouldn’t work because “unicorns are real, they’re just rare.” If only she knew what I know now!
I sent it without thinking too hard, the kind of random observation I might share with a friend. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed.
Humans have interesting beliefs about mythological creatures. She’s not entirely wrong about rarity, though. I haven’t met a unicorn personally, but I’ve heard they exist in remote areas.
I nearly dropped my phone. Unicorns? ACTUAL unicorns? I hurried to the break room to respond in private.
Wait… are you serious? Unicorns are REAL?!
The three minutes it took him to reply felt like an eternity.
Most mythological creatures have some basis in reality, though rarely matching human descriptions exactly. Your medieval artists were… creative.
I leaned against the break room counter, mind racing. Of course. If minotaurs were real, why not unicorns? Dragons? Phoenixes? The implications were staggering.
This is incredible. What else is real? Mermaids? Dragons? Is there like a secret monster society or something?
Another pause before his reply.
We prefer “non-human beings” to “monsters.” And yes to both questions, though again, not as depicted in human literature. Perhaps we can discuss this further on Thursday.
I blinked at his gentle correction. Monsters. I’d used that word without thinking, like it was harmless. To me, raised on fantasy novels and fairy tales, “monster” just meant “magical creature.” But to Rion, it probably carried centuries of prejudice and fear.
I’m so sorry about the “monster” thing. Thoughtless of me. And yes, I have about 10,000 questions for Thursday.
His response made me smile.
No offense taken. Your curiosity is… refreshing.
Throughout the next day, our texting continued with this new layer of openness. I sent him a picture of the mythology display, now complete with informational cards I’d created.
Your handiwork is drawing quite a crowd!
He replied with a photo that made me catch my breath—a detailed sketch of what appeared to be a custom ladder design. The proportions were perfect for the library shelves, with wider steps and reinforced sides.
Initial concept for a safer ladder. Thoughts?
I studied the sketch, touched by the thought he’d put into it. It wasn’t just functional; it was beautiful, with subtle decorative elements that would complement the library’s vintage aesthetic.
