The rain didn't last long—just a soft shower that whispered against the old library windows. Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of dust, old stories, and the fresh paint Ethan had been using that morning.
Amelia stepped through the doorway first, brushing droplets from her hair. Ethan followed behind her, shaking the rain from his jacket with a small chuckle.
> "It really doesn't waste time, does it?" he said, glancing back at the darkening clouds.
Amelia smiled. "It's Willow Bay. The rain has a personality of its own."
Ethan moved to set his toolbox aside, and Amelia wandered slowly through the main hall. The library was still in early restoration, shelves half-assembled, books stacked in uneven piles, sunlight filtering through dusty windows in soft golden stripes.
She touched one of the old wooden tables, her fingertips tracing the carvings left by time.
> "I used to come here when I was little," she said softly. "My grandmother would tell me the books were alive—that if I listened closely enough, I'd hear them breathing."
Ethan looked up at her, curious. "Did you believe her?"
She nodded. "I still do, a little."
He watched her for a moment—the way her voice softened when she talked about the past, the way she carried herself like someone holding fragile memories with careful hands.
> "You're different from most people I meet," he said quietly.
Amelia blinked. "Different how?"
He paused, searching for the right words.
> "You look at the world like it's still worth something."
She looked away, the corners of her lips lifting in a sad smile. "It wasn't always like that."
Ethan didn't push. He had a way of letting her speak only as much as she wanted to—never prying, never pressuring.
Instead, he lifted a wooden frame from the floor.
> "Come help me with this?" he asked.
Amelia nodded, stepping toward him. Together, they lifted the frame into place, their shoulders brushing gently. The quiet closeness made her pulse flutter unexpectedly.
She tried to hide it, but Ethan noticed.
> "Amelia," he said softly, keeping one hand on the frame, "you always look like you're ready to step back. Like you're afraid to take up space."
She froze for a heartbeat.
He wasn't wrong.
The years of loss had taught her how to shrink herself—to avoid taking up too much room, to avoid being someone who might be noticed, or missed, or loved too deeply.
Amelia lowered her gaze. "Some things make stepping forward feel dangerous."
Ethan rested his other hand lightly on the frame, watching her with gentle sincerity.
> "I won't ask you to run," he said.
"But I hope you'll let yourself walk beside me."
Her breath caught. He wasn't asking for promises—just presence. Just a chance.
She swallowed, forcing her voice to steady. "I'm trying."
A small smile touched his lips. "That's enough."
They spent the next hour working side by side, arranging shelves, wiping dust from old tables, and sorting through a box of forgotten books. Every little moment—every glance, every brush of their hands—wove a thin, delicate thread between them.
When Amelia reached for a stack of books, her fingers brushed his again. This time, neither of them pulled away.
A quiet stillness filled the room.
Ethan's voice was a whisper.
> "You make this place feel alive."
Amelia looked up slowly, her heart beating just a bit too fast.
"Maybe that's just the rain," she said softly.
Ethan shook his head once.
> "No. It's you."
Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she looked away, pretending to focus on the books.
Outside, the rain settled into a soft drizzle again, tapping lightly on the windows—steady, patient, familiar.
And for the first time in three long years, Amelia felt something she had almost forgotten:
She felt seen.