After the mailing office, Sylvester and I stopped by the town library.
The building stood near the center of Chocolano, its stone façade worn smooth by time and weather. I had walked through its doors more times than I could count, yet each visit felt the same, like stepping into a familiar refuge where the world outside softened its edges.
It was quiet inside. The familiar scent of parchment and ink greeted us the moment I pushed the door open, wrapping around me like a well worn blanket. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating rows of shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, their spines worn from years of careful hands and curious minds.
This place had always felt like home.
"Rosie," a familiar voice called out warmly. "Welcome back."
Winston Hawthorne stood behind the main desk, closing the book he had been reading. His curly red hair was slightly messier than usual, freckles scattered across his cheeks, and his green eyes lit up the moment he saw me. There was comfort in that expression, the kind that came from someone who had watched you grow without ever asking you to explain yourself.
"I wanted to return this," I said, stepping closer and handing him the novel I had finished, along with the academy pamphlets I no longer needed. "Someone else might want them."
He accepted the stack with an easy smile. "Clock Strikes Twelve," he murmured. "I had a feeling you'd like that one."
I sighed dreamily. "It was wonderful. Tragic and hopeful all at once."
Winston chuckled as he scanned the covers for damage. "And the ending?"
"I expected the happy ending," I admitted, "but I didn't expect the punishment. It felt a little too cruel."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Stories tend to reflect the world they're written in." He glanced toward the shelves. "Care to help me today?"
I nodded and followed him between the aisles, teasing him about putting me to work yet again.
It was easy with Winston. He never made me feel small or strange. Just normal. Just Rose.
We turned a corner too quickly.
The collision came suddenly. The books slipped from my hands as I stumbled backward and landed hard on the floor.
"I'm so sorry," a voice said immediately.
I looked up, startled, meeting the eyes of a young man about my age. He was dressed far more finely than anyone from Chocolano, his golden hair catching the light as he knelt to gather the fallen books. There was nothing arrogant about him, only genuine concern as he offered the stack back to me.
"No," I replied quietly, taking the books from his hands. "It was my fault. I should have paid more attention."
Our fingers brushed.
For a brief moment, the world felt strangely quiet, as though everything around us had paused just long enough for me to notice my own heartbeat.
"Are you alright?" Winston asked, appearing beside us.
I nodded, suddenly very aware of the warmth creeping into my cheeks. The young man smiled politely and excused himself, disappearing deeper into the library without another word.
Winston raised an eyebrow. "You seem flustered," he teased.
"I am not," I replied a little too quickly.
He laughed softly and returned to shelving the books, though I noticed him glance once toward the aisle where the stranger had gone.
When we finished, Winston studied me for a moment before speaking. "You sent your academy application today, didn't you?"
I froze, then nodded. "This morning."
His face broke into a proud grin. "That's wonderful, Rosie."
The way he said it made my chest tighten in a good way. Winston had always believed in me, even when I struggled to believe in myself.
We left the library together as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The walk home felt peaceful, the road quiet beneath our feet, the air cooling as evening approached.
Halfway there, a carriage appeared along the path, its wheels slowing as it drew closer to my cottage.
The coachman leaned down from his seat. "Miss, may I ask for directions to the nearest inn? Our passenger isn't feeling well."
I pointed toward town. "The Hawthorne Guesthouse is just down the road. I can show you."
By the time we reached the inn, evening had settled in fully. Warm light spilled from the windows, laughter and voices drifting into the street. Inside, the Hawthorne family greeted the travelers without hesitation, welcoming them as they always did.
I caught a glimpse of the same young man from the library standing nearby, speaking quietly with others I did not recognize.
Something about them felt important, though no one said a word to suggest it.
I did not stay long. The day had been full, and exhaustion tugged at my limbs.
Later that night, as Sylvester and I returned home, I lay awake longer than usual, staring up at the ceiling as the quiet of the cottage settled around us.
My magic stirred restlessly beneath my skin, a familiar sensation that felt sharper than before.
I did not know why.
I only knew that something had shifted.
And once again, I had the strange feeling that my life was quietly moving toward something I could not yet see.