Author’s Note: Thank you for joining me on this journey. If you are new to this story, I suggest you start with Chapter 1. Your comments and suggestions are very welcome!

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Eleanor descended the narrow staircase from the mezzanine, her hand trailing lightly along the polished wooden rail. The library’s atrium stretched below her, quiet and bathed in the muted afternoon light streaming through the tall windows.

She crossed the open space into the stacks and clutched a small notebook against her chest like a shield. This was her choice—venturing beyond her office, stepping into the spaces where patrons browsed and worked. It was uncomfortable, yes, but Eleanor had decided she couldn’t avoid them forever.

She had spent years behind the scenes, letting Thomas and others handle the face-to-face work. It had been more manageable that way, safe. Lately, however, safety had begun to feel stagnant. The library was her domain, and she wanted to own it entirely, even if it meant forcing herself into situations she once avoided.

As she turned down a row of shelves, her eyes fell on a man standing a few feet ahead. He was tall, with a neatly trimmed beard, and wore a blazer that looked slightly too formal for his surroundings. He was scanning the spines of books, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Eleanor hesitated, debating whether to offer help or retreat before he noticed her. When he turned and saw her, the decision was made for her.

“Hi,” he said, his voice warm but edged with uncertainty. “I think I’m a little lost. I was looking for something on organizational strategy, but…” He gestured helplessly at the row of books in front of him.

Eleanor took a cautious step forward, her heart picking up. “Um… that section is a little farther down,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “I can show you.”

“Oh, would you? That’d be great,” he said, offering her a smile that seemed genuine, if slightly embarrassed.

She led him down the row, the silence between them stretching uncomfortably. When they reached the section, she gestured to the shelves. “These should have what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks,” he said, scanning the titles again. After a moment, he chuckled softly. “It’s kind of ironic, really.”

Eleanor tilted her head, curious despite herself. “What is?”

“That I’m looking for books on strategy,” he said, pulling one down and flipping it open. “It’s not even my job. I work in finance, mostly spreadsheets and audits. But the strategic side of things? That’s the part I’ve always found interesting.”

“Then… why not pursue it?” she asked, surprised by her own boldness.

He sighed, tucking the book under his arm. “Because I didn’t, back when I had the chance. There was a job offer years ago—consulting work in Paris. It was my dream job, but I turned it down. My wife was pregnant at the time, and we both decided it was safer for me to stay put.”

Eleanor nodded, unsure what to say.

“It wasn’t the wrong choice,” he added quickly, as if to reassure her—or himself. “But I can’t help wondering, you know? What if?”

His words hung in the air, and Eleanor felt a strange kinship with him. She knew that feeling, the ache of a missed opportunity, the unanswered question that lingered like an open wound.

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “maybe it’s not too late.”

He looked at her, his expression softening. “You think so?”

Eleanor shrugged, her nervousness returning. “I don’t know. But… sometimes, things come around again.”

He smiled, a faint but genuine curve of his lips. “Thanks for that.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, “and my name is Eleanor.” She wan’t sure why she told him that.

“I’m Victor,” he smiled. “I guess after bearing my soul like that, we shouldn’t be strangers anymore.”

Eleanor was struck by his choice of words. Strangers.

They parted shortly after, and Eleanor hurried back upstairs, her heart racing for reasons she couldn’t fully explain. The interaction had been burdensome, awkward, and exhausting, but it had left her with a spark of determination.

Sliding into her chair, she opened the book, her fingers trembling as she rested them on the worn leather cover. She thought of James, his story, and the regret clouding his eyes when he spoke about Paris.

If she could give him a second chance, even the possibility of one, wouldn’t it be worth it?

Eleanor touched the book with a deep breath and asked herself, “What does James need to reclaim his dream?”

The ink began to flow.

——

Eleanor sat at her desk, her hand resting on her mouse as her computer’s screen glowed faintly in the dim office light. She hadn’t planned to dwell on James Carver—his name still felt foreign and slightly too personal on her tongue—but her breath hitched when the email popped into her inbox.

It had been weeks since their second conversation, and while she hadn’t expected to hear from him again, part of her had hoped she might. She hesitated before clicking on the subject line: “Thank you for everything.”

Before opening the email, her mind drifted back to that second conversation.

——

After consulting the book, she found James browsing near the study carrels, clearly preparing to dive into more research. Her heart pounded as she approached him, still unsure if she’d made the right decision.

“James,” she said softly, feeling the familiar awkwardness tighten her throat.

He turned, startled but smiling when he saw her. “Oh, hi!”

“I, um… I looked into something for you,” she said, clutching a printout she’d brought from her office. “I thought this might be helpful.”

She handed him the paper, and he glanced down at it. It was a link to a recruitment page for the Paris firm he had mentioned. The site was advertising a new consulting position, nearly identical to the one he’d turned down years ago.

James’ eyes widened. “This… this is real?”

She nodded. “It’s an open position. I think it could be a second chance if you’re still interested.”

He stared at the page for a long moment, his expression shifting from surprise to something more subdued. “I don’t even know what to say. Thank you.”

Eleanor hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her notebook as she steeled herself. “There is… one thing.”

James looked up, his brow furrowing slightly.

“I need you to make a promise,” she said carefully. “If you get the job—and I really think you will—you need to recommend your assistant for your current position. Someone who’s been waiting for their chance, just like you.”

James blinked, clearly caught off guard. “That’s… specific,” he said with a faint chuckle. “But sure, yeah. She’s great—probably better at my job than I am, honestly. If this works out, I’ll make sure she gets the opportunity.”

Eleanor nodded, trying not to let her relief show. “That’s all I ask.”

James’ excitement grew as he scanned the paper again. “I can’t believe this. It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t answer, just managed a small smile as he bustled away, clutching the printout like it was a treasure map.

——

Weeks later, she opened an email.

James’ gratitude filled the opening lines:

“Thank you for everything. I can’t believe it worked—I’m here in Paris, working on projects I’d only dreamed of before. It’s been amazing to walk through these streets, to be part of something so dynamic and exciting. I don’t know how you found that link, but I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

Eleanor smiled faintly, but as she read further, the sense of accomplishment gave way to something darker:

“At first, it was wonderful—everything I imagined and more. But now, I’m struggling. The workload is intense, the deadlines are suffocating, and the team expects me to keep up as though I’ve been doing this for years. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I don’t know if I can handle this, but I’m too ashamed to quit after all the effort it took to get here.”

Her heart sank, her fingers tightening on the edge of her desk.

James had continued:

“I did what you asked. I recommended my assistant for my old job, and she got it. She’s thriving there—I can tell she’s happier than I ever was. I thought helping her would make me feel better, but it didn’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know if this was the right move after all. But still, thank you so much for at least giving me this opportunity to try.”

Eleanor leaned back in her chair, her hands trembling slightly as she closed the email.

She had thought the promise would ensure balance, that it would prevent any unintended consequences from spiraling out of control. James had kept it, and his assistant had benefited, but he was still struggling.

Had she made a mistake in guiding him toward this path? Or was the problem something deeper, something the book hadn’t revealed? Could it be as simple as his life shifting from mediocre to terrible while his assistant’s life had shifted from mediocre to wonderful?

Her eyes drifted to the book resting on her desk, its cover worn and silent. For a moment, she considered opening it, asking if James’ struggles were the cost of the balance or simply the natural friction of change.

But she hesitated.

The book didn’t care about happiness or regret. It only cared about the scales. And while James’ life had shifted in ways she couldn’t predict, it was his path to walk now.

She leaned forward, resting her head in her hands as she tried to silence the gnawing doubts.

For a brief moment, a wave of frustration swept over her. Why hadn’t her grandfather prepared her better for this? He must have known how dangerous and unpredictable the book was, how it would pull at her sense of right and wrong, her need to help, and her fear of failure.

He had left her nothing—no guidance, no warnings, no map to navigate the labyrinth of choices the book demanded. If only the trunk had not been so empty. Just the book, responsibility, and nothing else.

Eleanor bit her lip, forcing herself to calm the storm inside her.

She had pushed herself to help James, forcing herself to step beyond the safety of her office and her routines. She had wanted to make a difference, to prove to herself that she could connect with someone despite her fears.

Instead, she felt more distant than ever, unsure if her choices had indeed done any good.

The book’s silence was almost mocking.

——

The edges of the journal’s pages were worn, the ink slightly smudged from years of handling. Malcolm Grant sat at his desk, the book resting ominously at his side. His hand trembled slightly as he dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write.

“The artist was young, hungry for recognition. She came to me with eyes full of hope and desperation, asking for a way to break through the barriers keeping her from success. She had talent—I could see it in the small sketches she carried, in the way her hands moved as she described her vision. But the world didn’t care. She had knocked on every door, entered every gallery, and still, no one would give her a chance.”

He paused, the memory vivid in his mind. She had been so earnest, her passion infectious. He had felt a pang of sympathy, an urge to help her.

“I consulted the book. I knew I shouldn’t—it wasn’t my place to intervene in something so personal, so fragile—but I couldn’t resist. She had so much potential, and it felt wrong to let it go to waste.”

The ink flowed faster now, his pen scratching against the paper.

“The book revealed her path with unsettling clarity. It told me to guide her toward a gallery owner in New York, a man with influence and a keen eye for undiscovered talent. The connection was perfect—too perfect. Within weeks, she was exhibited in his gallery, her work the talk of the city.”

Malcolm set the pen down for a moment, rubbing his temple as the weight of what followed pressed against his chest. He picked the pen back up.

“At first, it seemed like a triumph. Her career skyrocketed. Her paintings sold for more money than she had ever imagined. Critics sang her praises, and invitations to prestigious events flooded in. She sent me a letter, thanking me for believing in her, for showing her the way. I thought I had done the right thing.”

The handwriting shifted, becoming jagged and uneven.

“But fame is not a gentle companion. The pressure mounted, and the demands on her time and creativity became relentless. The gallery owner who had championed her began to exploit her, demanding more work, pushing her to meet impossible deadlines. The joy she had once found in her art was crushed under the weight of expectation.”

He stared at the book beside him, its leather cover gleaming faintly in the dim light.

“She tried to keep up, but the cracks began to show. Her work became erratic, and the critics turned on her as quickly as they had lifted her up. She spiraled into despair, retreating from the world. The last I heard, she had left the city entirely, her once-promising career in ruins.”

Malcolm whispered to himself, his voice hoarse: “I thought I was giving her a chance. Instead, I gave her a burden she couldn’t carry.”

For the first time that evening, he allowed his hand to rest on the book’s cover. The warmth of it was familiar, almost comforting, but it did nothing to ease the knot in his chest.

The silence of the room felt like judgment.

Malcolm hesitated before continuing, his pen poised above the journal’s page. He had thought about this moment more times than he cared to admit, the way the book had demanded its inevitable balance. Even now, years later, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began to write:

“As always, the book required a promise. It was simple in concept, though cruel in hindsight. She was to use her success to mentor another artist—someone who shared her struggles and her hunger, someone desperate for a chance. She agreed without hesitation, her voice brimming with gratitude. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I would have given anything to have had that kind of help.’”

Malcolm paused, the memory of her enthusiasm still sharp in his mind. He had believed her, believed that the promise would anchor her, keep her from losing herself in the frenzy of success.

“And she kept the promise. Even as the demands of fame and recognition consumed her, she fulfilled her part of the bargain. She took on a student, a young painter who reminded her of herself—eager, talented, and unnoticed. She poured her heart into mentoring him, giving him the opportunities she had fought so hard for. Her influence transformed his career, propelling him into a life of stability and quiet acclaim.”

Malcolm leaned back, staring at the flickering shadows cast by the fire.

“The balance was upheld. The student thrived. His work found its place in galleries and private collections, and he spoke often of the debt he owed to her. But for her, the cost was immeasurable. The happiness she found in her own success was fleeting, a brief spark before the weight of fame extinguished it entirely. The pressures mounted, the critics turned, and she began to unravel. The promise had been kept, but the balance seemed one-sided.”

His handwriting grew heavier, the words darker against the page.

“The book cares only for the scales, not for fairness. Her brief joy was traded for her student’s enduring success, and in the end, she was left with nothing. It balanced—but it didn’t feel fair. She gave everything, and all she received was a moment of light before the shadows consumed her.”

Malcolm set the pen down, rubbing his temples as frustration and regret welled within him. He had thought the promise would protect her, that her act of generosity would shield her from the worst of the book’s ripples. But he had been wrong.

“I thought I was helping her. I thought I was giving her a gift. Instead, I gave her a burden she couldn’t carry for long. The balance was upheld, but at what cost? Her student’s success was no comfort to her, not as she watched her own dreams crumble under the weight of their fulfillment.”

He stared at the closed book beside him, its leather cover gleaming faintly in the firelight.

“The book does not deal in fairness or kindness. It deals only in balance. And sometimes, balance feels like the cruelest force of all.”

Malcolm closed the journal slowly, the sound of the leather binding snapping shut echoing in the quiet room. He sat in silence, the weight of the artist’s story pressing heavily on his chest.

He had written everything he could. Whether it would help, he couldn’t say. But he hoped, one day, Eleanor would find the guidance he had lacked.

Little did he know, those journals would burn, their wisdom lost to the flames.

——

Thomas perched on the edge of Eleanor’s desk, a stack of returned books balanced precariously in his hands. She was seated across from him, her eyes fixed on the book that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the corner of her workspace. Her fingers brushed its leather cover absentmindedly, and her expression was distant, as though she were miles away.

“Earth to Eleanor,” Thomas said, his tone light but edged with concern.

She blinked and looked up at him, startled. “What? Sorry, I was just… thinking.”

“Uh-huh,” Thomas said, setting the books down and crossing his arms. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Thinking, I mean. You’ve also been really quiet—not your usual quiet, but, like, super quiet.”

Eleanor frowned slightly, her fingers pulling away from the book as though it had burned her. “I’ve just been busy,” she said, her voice unconvincing.

Thomas studied her, his usual jovial demeanor giving way to something more serious. He had worked with Eleanor long enough to know when something was off, and this was definitely one of those times.

“It’s not just work,” he said gently. “You’ve been… distracted. Ever since that Caleb guy showed up.”

Eleanor stiffened at the mention of Caleb, her hand moving to shuffle the papers on her desk. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “He’s just… a patron.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Is he? Because he seems to be here a lot. And you seem to tense up every time his name comes up.”

Eleanor didn’t respond, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“And then there’s that thing,” Thomas added, nodding toward the book. “You’ve been glued to it lately. I don’t even think I’ve seen it leave your side in weeks.”

“It’s part of my research,” Eleanor said, her voice sharper than she intended.

“Okay, okay,” Thomas said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, it seems like a lot of your ‘research’ is making you miserable.”

Eleanor opened her mouth to argue but stopped herself. She couldn’t explain the weight the book carried, the way it seemed to weave itself into her thoughts, her decisions, her life. And Caleb—Caleb only complicated things further.

Thomas leaned forward, his voice softer now. “Look, I know you’re not exactly the ‘let’s talk about our feelings’ type, but if something’s going on, you can tell me. Or not. But I’m here if you need me.”

Eleanor forced a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks, Thomas. I’ll be fine.”

Thomas didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. As he stood and gathered the stack of books, he glanced at the book on her desk one more time.

“I just hope whatever’s in there is worth it,” he said casually.

Eleanor didn’t answer, her gaze drifting back to the book as he walked away.

Thomas paused in the doorway, looking back at her for a moment. She was already lost in thought again, her hand resting on the book’s cover as though it were an anchor.

He didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was, he had a feeling it wasn’t good.

——

Eleanor gripped the steering wheel tightly, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows across the pavement as she navigated the familiar streets. The book sat beside her in the passenger seat.

It rested there silently, its worn leather cover gleaming faintly in the fading light. She glanced at it briefly, her stomach twisting with a mixture of unease and guilt. She hadn’t meant to start carrying it with her everywhere—it had just… happened.

Thomas’s words from that afternoon came rushing back to her. “You’ve been glued to it lately. I don’t even think I’ve seen it leave your side in weeks.”

She bit her lip, her fingers tightening on the wheel. Was he right? Was she addicted to the book?

The thought unsettled her. She had told herself that the book was a tool, a resource to be used sparingly, carefully. But somewhere along the way, it had become more than that. She carried it with her now, not because she needed it for every moment of her day, but because she couldn’t bear to leave it behind.

It wasn’t just a book—it was a weight, a responsibility, and, perhaps, a crutch.

Her eyes darted to it again. Could she set it aside? Could she lock it back in the trunk it had come in, bury it away and forget about it?

The idea seemed impossible. The thought of being without it left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. What if she needed it? What if a situation arose in which only the book could provide the answers she sought?

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if to dislodge the thoughts.

And then there was Caleb.

The mere thought of him sent a jolt through her, a mix of embarrassment, frustration, and something else she couldn’t quite name. He had been so kind, so genuine, but there was a magnetism about him that made her uneasy.

It wasn’t just his interest in jazz or his charming smile—it was how he seemed to see through her. The way he lingered just a little too long in her space, his curiosity pressing against the walls she had so carefully built.

Eleanor pulled into her driveway and killed the engine, sitting in the quiet car as dusk settled around her. She stared at the book, her mind racing with questions she couldn’t answer.

Was she losing control?

She reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing the leather cover. It felt warm, familiar, almost alive beneath her touch.

“I don’t need you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can stop. I can lock you away.”

The book gave no answer, but its presence was suffocating all the same.

Eleanor sat there for a long moment, her hand resting on the book as the world outside grew darker. Finally, she pulled her hand away and stepped out of the car, leaving the book where it was.

But as she walked toward the house, her chest tightened, and her steps faltered.

It wasn’t long before she turned back, opened the car door, and retrieved it.

——

Eleanor stared at the trunk, its heavy lid now closed and latched, the small brass key cool in her trembling hand. Inside, the book sat in silence, locked away for the first time in weeks. She exhaled shakily and dropped the key into her purse, stepping back as though the trunk might somehow open itself.

It felt wrong. Every part of her screamed to unlock it, to retrieve the book and keep it close. But Thomas’s words still echoed in her mind.

“You’ve been glued to it lately… I just hope whatever’s in there is worth it.”

Worth it.

She rubbed her temples and glanced at the clock. “It’s just a book,” she whispered to herself. “I don’t need it.”

Grabbing her bag, she left the room and headed to the car. As she backed out of her driveway, she caught herself glancing at the house in her rearview mirror, barely resisting the urge to turn back.

——

Eleanor tried to shake off the feeling when she arrived at the library.

It was quiet as usual, its vast interior bathed in morning light. She flipped the switches one by one, watching as the atrium came alive with soft golden hues. The routine of lighting the space, of bringing her domain to life, was normally grounding for her. But not today.

The rows of shelves glowed as she walked through the stacks, her fingers brushing lightly over the spines of books. Yet the familiar sense of control and belonging was absent. Instead, her steps felt hollow, her movements detached.

It wasn’t until she sat at her desk that the emptiness truly set in.

Her workspace was neat, as it always was, but the absence of the book left a void she couldn’t ignore. She folded her hands in her lap, staring at the bare surface where it had always rested.

She felt naked. Vulnerable. The library, her sanctuary, suddenly seemed too large, too open, as though anyone could walk in and see straight through her.

——

Hours passed in a blur of monotony. Eleanor threw herself into work, shelving books, answering questions, and avoiding eye contact with patrons whenever possible. She tried to remind herself that this was what she had wanted—a day without the book’s weight hanging over her.

But when Thomas appeared at her desk, his expression tense, her carefully constructed composure began to crack.

“Eleanor,” he said, his voice low. “There’s a situation in the atrium.”

“What kind of situation?” she asked, her pulse quickening.

Thomas shifted uneasily. “It’s a woman. She’s really upset. Something about a custody case—she’s looking for court records or proof and not finding what she needs. She’s… unraveling, right there in front of everyone.”

Eleanor’s chest tightened. The stakes were clear: without the right information, this woman could lose custody of her child.

“What does she need?” Eleanor asked quickly.

“I’m not sure,” Thomas admitted, his hands wringing nervously. “But I think she’s desperate.”

Eleanor froze. Her thoughts turned immediately to the book.

It wasn’t here. She had locked it away, thinking she could manage without it. But what if it could guide her to the answer? What if it could stop this tragedy before it spiraled out of control?

Her hands clenched into fists as the weight of her decision settled over her.

“I’ll handle it,” she said abruptly, rising from her chair.

“Are you sure?” Thomas asked, his brow furrowed.

She didn’t respond. Eleanor grabbed her coat and walked briskly toward the door without another word.

——

The drive home felt interminable, every second stretching longer than the last. Eleanor gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white against the leather.

The road blurred around her, her focus singular. She had thought she could leave the book behind, that she could lock it away and move forward. But now, the emptiness she’d felt all morning had been replaced by a gnawing sense of urgency.

The book wasn’t just a tool—it was a lifeline.

She pressed harder on the accelerator, the engine’s hum growing louder as her chest tightened with the weight of her decision.

The house finally came into view, and as she pulled into the driveway, Eleanor was already fumbling for her keys.

The book was waiting for her. And no matter how much she tried to resist, she couldn’t escape the truth: she needed it.

——

Eleanor sat at her desk, the book open in front of her. Its blank pages stared back at her, quiet and unassuming yet brimming with potential. Yesterday’s events replayed in her mind: the urgency, the desperation, the strange relief when the answer appeared, clear and precise.

And the promise.

The woman had hesitated when Eleanor explained the terms—she needed to reach out to the estranged father of her daughter and offer an olive branch. The woman looked at her as though she were mad but finally agreed, if only because she was out of options.

The result had been perfect. Too perfect.

The book’s silence now felt heavier than usual, its presence pulling at her like a tide she couldn’t resist.

“Eleanor.”

She looked up sharply to see Thomas standing a few feet from her desk, his arms crossed and his expression uncharacteristically serious.

“You’re back,” he said, his tone even but laced with something close to an accusation.

“Yes,” she replied cautiously, her fingers hovering protectively over the book.

“And the book is back, too,” he noted, gesturing toward it. “Funny how it shows up after yesterday.”

Eleanor tensed. “Thomas, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“I think you know exactly what I’m getting at,” he said, stepping closer. “You ran out of here without a word, left me to deal with a distraught woman, and then came back with… that.” He pointed at the book, his voice rising slightly. “And in minutes, you had the perfect answer for her. What the hell, Eleanor?”

She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. “I… needed to retrieve something.”

“Don’t give me that,” he snapped. “I’ve worked with you long enough to know something’s happening. That book—whatever it is—you’re glued to it. And now you’re solving problems like you’ve got a direct line to the universe. Are you going to tell me what’s happening, or are we just going to keep pretending this is normal?”

Eleanor’s chest tightened, her mind racing for a response. Thomas was the last person she wanted to be involved in the book’s mysteries, but his tone made it clear he wasn’t going to drop this easily.

“It’s not what you think,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm.

“Then what is it?” he pressed. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve got something in that book that’s giving you all the answers, and you’re not sharing it.”

She flinched, the weight of his accusation hitting harder than she expected.

“It’s… complicated,” she said after a long pause. “The book—it’s not just a book. It’s… I don’t even know how to explain it.”

“Try me,” Thomas said, his voice softening slightly.

Eleanor looked at him, her hands tightening on the edges of the book. She wanted to tell him, to unburden herself of the secret that had consumed her life. But how could she make him understand?

“It’s not something I can just explain,” she said finally, her voice strained. “And it’s not something you’d believe, even if I tried.”

Thomas stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Look, Eleanor,” he said, his tone more gentle now. “I’m not trying to pry. But whatever this is… it’s changing you. You’re not yourself anymore. And I’m worried about you.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, unable to meet his eyes.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she said quietly. “But I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded reluctantly and turned to leave.

As the sound of his steps faded down the stairs, Eleanor looked back at the book, her chest heavy with guilt and uncertainty.

Am I fine? she wondered.

The book’s blank pages offered no reassurance, only the faint echo of yesterday’s events—and the promise that had sealed them.

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