The rain finally stopped by late afternoon, leaving a delicate shimmer over Willow Bay. As Amelia stepped outside the library, the world felt washed clean—the air crisp, the cobblestones glistening, the scent of wet leaves dancing in the breeze.
She paused on the steps, letting the cool mist touch her skin.
Working with Ethan had left her heart feeling strangely full… and dangerously light.
She wasn't sure if she was ready for that.
She wasn't sure if she could be.
As she walked down the path, she heard someone call her name.
> "Amelia!"
She turned. Ethan jogged toward her, holding something small and wooden in his hand.
When he reached her, slightly out of breath, he lifted the object with a sheepish grin.
> "You forgot this."
It was a pencil—simple, worn, a smear of graphite along the side where she tended to grip too tightly.
Amelia blinked. "You ran all the way for that?"
Ethan shrugged. "It felt like a good excuse."
Her chest tightened—softly, painfully.
They stood there on the path, surrounded by the gentle glow of the fading day. The silence wasn't awkward… but it was something. Something neither of them knew how to name yet.
Amelia looked down at the pencil, her fingers brushing his as she took it.
> "Thank you," she whispered.
He nodded. "Walk with me? Just to the square."
She hesitated. She always hesitated.
But her feet moved before her mind could stop them.
"Okay," she said softly.
They fell into step beside each other, their strides matching naturally. The town was quiet now—shops closing, lights warm in windows, the sound of distant laughter drifting from the café.
Amelia's heart thudded softly, not with fear this time… but with awareness.
> "You really care about that library," she said.
Ethan gave a small laugh. "I do. It's… more than a project. It feels like a second chance."
"At what?"
He slowed a little, his voice dropping.
> "At feeling useful again. At fixing something instead of breaking it."
Amelia turned to look at him, but he kept his eyes forward.
> "People don't fall apart," she said gently. "They get wounded. That's different."
He exhaled, almost relieved by her words—as if she'd said something he hadn't been able to admit himself.
They reached the town square. The fountain in the center trickled softly, its water reflecting the soft pink of the sky. They lingered there, neither wanting to say goodbye first.
Ethan cleared his throat.
> "I'm glad you came today."
Amelia's fingers tightened around the pencil. "I… I'm glad I did too."
The moment stretched between them, warm and trembling.
Amelia could feel the truth hovering on the tip of her tongue:
You make me feel again. And that scares me.
But she couldn't say it. Not yet.
Ethan stepped a little closer, his voice barely above a whisper.
> "Amelia… if there's ever anything you want to talk about—anything at all—I'll listen."
A strange, fragile warmth spread across her chest.
"I know," she replied softly. "And that makes it harder to hide."
Ethan's eyes softened.
> "Then maybe you don't have to hide."
She looked away, her breath trembling. She wasn't ready. She wanted to be… but her heart was still learning how to trust the quiet of his voice.
She took half a step back, gently creating space, and Ethan didn't chase it. He simply nodded, understanding without judgment.
> "Goodnight, Ethan."
"Goodnight, Amelia."
She walked toward her shop, the streetlights glowing softly above her.
And Ethan remained standing there in the square, watching her walk away—not with disappointment, but with a patience so steady it made her heart ache.
For the first time in years, Amelia felt something growing inside her.
Something small.
Something tender.
Something she feared losing… yet longed to keep.
Hope.