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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Caleb Montgomery stepped out of the library into the crisp afternoon air, his thoughts swirling as he adjusted the collar of his coat. The meeting with Eleanor Finch had been… unexpected.

He had imagined someone more commanding, perhaps with a sharp tongue and an air of superiority—an academic with an unshakable sense of self. Instead, he had met a woman who spoke softly, her words deliberate and careful, her presence more understated than he could have anticipated.

And yet, there was something about her that lingered in his mind.

Her findings about Charles Dupont had been extraordinary, almost impossibly precise. Caleb had spent years chasing shadows in archives, piecing together fragments of jazz history, but what Eleanor had uncovered went beyond even his most ambitious hopes.

It wasn’t just the depth of her research—it was the specificity. The details of Dupont’s first meeting with Louis Armstrong, the dinner they shared, the nuances of their relationship… It was as though she hadn’t just uncovered the story but walked through it herself.

He stopped at the corner of the street, the buzz of the city barely registering as his thoughts lingered on her.

“How did she do it?” he murmured.

She had been guarded during their conversation, answering his questions with a deliberateness that felt both calculated and hesitant. He had tried to probe gently, curious about her methods, but an edge of fear in her eyes had stopped him from pushing too hard.

That fear intrigued him as much as her brilliance.

Caleb turned onto a quieter street, his footsteps slow and deliberate. Eleanor’s reluctance to share everything wasn’t born of arrogance—he had met plenty of people who hoarded their discoveries for selfish reasons. No, hers came from something deeper, something fragile and unspoken.

And then there was something else, something he hadn’t expected.

Her eyes—they darted nervously as she spoke, only to focus with intense clarity when she talked about the research. Her lips curled into a faint, fleeting smile when he thanked her. He could still hear the softness in her voice and feel the tremor in the handshake they had exchanged.

It had been a long time since he’d noticed someone like that.

Caleb stopped walking, caught off guard by the thought.

He had buried those feelings years ago when his wife had passed. The grief had left him numb to that kind of connection, and he had accepted that it might never return. But there, in the library, something had stirred—something he hadn’t been prepared for.

He pulled out his notebook, flipping to the section on Charles Dupont. Eleanor’s notes were scrawled alongside his own earlier research, their precision striking against his fragmented findings. Her handwriting was neat but firm, as though she poured her full focus into even the smallest task.

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

She wasn’t just brilliant—she was captivating in a way he couldn’t define. And that unsettled him.

He tucked the notebook back into his coat, his thoughts a tangle of curiosity and something he dared not name. Whatever Eleanor Finch was guarding, whatever secrets her brilliance masked, Caleb was determined to uncover them.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d uncover something more.

——

Eleanor had just stepped into the atrium, her arms full of books to be reshelved, when she heard a hesitant voice behind her.

“Excuse me, are you Eleanor Finch?”

She froze, her heart immediately picking up its pace. Turning slowly, she saw an older woman standing a few feet away. The woman was well-dressed, with a worn photograph clutched tightly in her hands.

“Yes,” Eleanor said, her voice quieter than she intended. “I’m Eleanor. How can I help you?”

The woman stepped closer, her movements careful, as though she could sense Eleanor’s discomfort. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “but Thomas told me you’re the best person to speak to about finding something—something that’s been lost for a very long time.”

Eleanor shifted the books in her arms, her pulse quickening. She glanced around the atrium, suddenly hyperaware of the open space, the possibility of other patrons overhearing.

“I… I can try to help,” she said, her voice stiff.

The woman seemed to notice Eleanor’s unease and softened her tone. “Thank you. I don’t mean to impose, but this is very important to me.” She held out the photograph, her hands trembling.

Eleanor hesitated but finally took it, her eyes falling on the image of a young woman in a black-and-white portrait. The woman in the photo was smiling faintly, a delicate oval locket glinting at her throat.

“It belonged to my grandmother,” the woman said. “A silver locket, engraved with her initials—M.L. She wore it in every photograph we have of her. But after she passed, it disappeared. No one in the family has seen it for decades.”

Eleanor nodded, trying to focus on the photograph rather than the weight of the woman’s hopeful gaze. “That’s… difficult,” she said carefully. “Finding something like this isn’t always possible.”

“I know,” the woman said quickly, her voice tinged with desperation. “I’ve searched everywhere—online, auctions, family records. It’s like it vanished. But Thomas said you’ve helped with things like this before, and I thought… maybe…”

Eleanor’s stomach churned. She hated these moments—when the weight of someone else’s expectations pressed down on her. “I’ll… do what I can,” she said finally, her voice tight.

The woman’s face brightened with gratitude. “Thank you so much. Even if it’s a long shot, it means everything to me.”

Eleanor nodded awkwardly, clutching the photograph as the woman excused herself and stepped away. She felt her shoulders sag in relief as the distance grew between them.

---

Back in her office, Eleanor set the photograph on her desk, her thoughts racing. She didn’t need to involve the book—it wasn’t necessary for something like this, was it? But even as she told herself she could handle it without its help, her hand drifted toward the ancient tome.

The book sat closed beside her, its presence almost magnetic. Eleanor placed her hand lightly on the blank page and closed her eyes, imagining the locket: its intricate engraving, the smooth curve of the silver. She thought of the woman’s voice, her hope tinged with desperation.

The ink appeared, flowing across the page in graceful strokes:

“The locket lies forgotten in a secondhand shop in Savannah, Georgia. It sits in a glass case, among trinkets and baubles, its clasp slightly bent. The shopkeeper, a kind man named Roger, bought it years ago from an estate sale. It has waited, unnoticed, for someone to claim it.”

Eleanor sighed in relief, but before she could close the book, more words appeared:

“When the locket is claimed, balance must be restored. One path: the patron makes a promise to share her fortune by giving a family heirloom of equal sentimental value to someone in need. She fulfills the promise, and the cycle of giving brings peace.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, watching as new lines etched themselves onto the page:

“But another path exists. If the locket is claimed without the promise, ripples will spread. The locket, tainted by greed, will carry with it a subtle shadow. It will not bring closure but unease, and what was lost may never fully return.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. This was no mere suggestion—it was a choice with vague but undeniably ominous consequences.

——

After meeting Eleanor the next morning, Vivian Carter left the library clutching the piece of paper she had given her. The information about the locket was printed in crisp, neat type. Outside, the late afternoon sunlight cast long shadows on the sidewalk, and the distant hum of passing cars barely registered as she made her way to her car.

Her mind was spinning, replaying the conversation she’d had with Eleanor Finch—the soft-spoken, almost fragile librarian whose discomfort with their meeting had been palpable. Despite Eleanor’s awkward demeanor, her insight and quiet determination had been impressive, even a little humbling.

Still, the idea of the promise Eleanor had asked for left the patron confused.

“A promise,” she murmured to herself, unlocking the car door and sliding into the driver’s seat. She sat there for a moment, the paper resting in her lap, her hands still trembling slightly. “A promise to give away an heirloom of equal sentimental value.”

The request was strange, to say the least. What did it have to do with retrieving the locket? She thought of Eleanor’s hesitant words: “I don’t know why exactly, but it’s important. It… restores balance.”

Balance. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it. Was it some sort of superstition? A philosophical stance? Or was it something else entirely, something Eleanor hadn’t—or couldn’t—explain?

She started the car and began the drive home, her thoughts tangled as she tried to decide whether to keep the promise. A cynical voice in her mind told her she didn’t have to. After all, the locket would already be waiting for her in Savannah. What did it matter what she promised or didn’t promise?

But another part of her—the quieter, softer part—couldn’t shake the feeling that it did matter. That Eleanor, strange as she was, had been speaking a truth that couldn’t be ignored.

What could I give? she thought. The idea of giving away a family heirloom felt daunting, almost impossible. Her grandmother’s pearls? No, those had been promised to her daughter. Her father’s antique watch? It had been passed down too many generations to part with it.

She thought of her home, filled with keepsakes and memories, and tried to cast her mind over the many objects she had collected. Nothing seemed right—until she thought of Olivia.

Her young cousin Olivia, barely out of her twenties, was engaged to be married next spring. Vivian thought of the girl’s bright smile, genuine kindness, and love of family traditions. Then, like a light breaking through a clouded sky, she remembered the tea set.

The tea set belonged to their great-grandmother. It was a delicate porcelain collection hand-painted with violets and edged in gold. It was beautiful, but it had always felt impractical to her—something to be admired from a distance rather than used. It had spent the last decade boxed up in her attic, gathering dust.

But to Olivia, it would mean the world. She had always admired it during family gatherings, asking about its history and imagining using it for her future home. Vivian realized, with a pang of shame, that she had never considered offering it to Olivia before.

She pulled into her driveway, cut the engine, and sat in silence for a moment. The idea of giving Olivia the tea set as a wedding gift felt… right—more than right. It felt like something she should have done a long time ago.

Why didn’t I think of this sooner? she wondered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment at the thought of her cousin’s reaction.

Eleanor’s words echoed in her mind, and the confusion that clouded her thoughts earlier began to clear. It didn’t matter if the promise was tied to the locket. It didn’t matter if there was some metaphysical “balance” to maintain. What mattered was that this was the right thing to do.

Vivian entered the house, heading straight for the attic. When she reached the box holding the tea set, her heart was light, and her doubts had evaporated. She ran her fingers over the lid of the box and smiled.

“This is for Olivia,” she whispered.

The locket felt closer than ever, not because of the address Eleanor had given her, but because she had already found its balance.

———–

Eleanor sat in her office, the library quiet as the late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows. The ancient book lay closed on her desk, its leather cover almost gleaming in the soft light. She stared at it, her thoughts drifting to her recent encounter with Vivian Carter.

The second meeting, where she’d given Vivian the address for the locket and asked for the promise, had been far easier than the first. By then, Vivian’s gratitude and excitement had softened the edges of Eleanor’s anxiety, making the conversation less overwhelming.

But it wasn’t just the familiarity that had helped—it was knowing the importance of the request. She had considered asking Thomas to relay the information at the time. It would have been so much easier to let him handle it, to avoid another face-to-face meeting with someone she barely knew.

Yet Eleanor had hesitated. The promise had felt too important to entrust to a secondhand request, too delicate to risk being misunderstood. She had sensed that hearing it directly from her, awkward and stilted as her delivery might have been, would lend it the weight it needed.

And Vivian had listened.

Eleanor leaned forward and rested her fingers lightly on the book’s cover. Curiosity stirred in her—an urge to know how it turned out. She hesitated, knowing the book’s answers often came with a cost, but this felt harmless enough.

With a steadying breath, she opened the book and placed her hand on a blank page. She pictured Vivian in her mind: her kind but nervous smile, her hands trembling slightly as she held the printed details about the locket.

The ink began to flow.

“Vivian Carter walks into a quiet secondhand shop in Savannah, her heart pounding as she steps toward the glass case. The shopkeeper greets her with a warm smile and retrieves the silver locket she had described over the phone. Tears fill her eyes as she holds it in her hands, the engraving still as beautiful as she remembered from the photographs.”

Eleanor smiled faintly as the words continued.

“Days later, Vivian wraps the tea set carefully, each piece cushioned in soft paper. She presents it to her cousin Olivia, who gasps in delight and embraces her tightly. The promise is kept, and the cycle of giving brings joy to them both.”

The ink faded, leaving the page blank once more. Eleanor let her hand fall away, her thoughts lingering on the story the book had revealed.

She was glad she had met with Vivian, despite the anxiety it had caused. She was glad she hadn’t pushed the responsibility onto Thomas, no matter how tempting it had been.

Meeting Vivian had reminded her of something she sometimes forgot: that even small acts, small connections, could ripple outward in ways she might never fully understand.

For once, the weight of the book didn’t feel so heavy. For once, its story had ended in simple, quiet happiness.

And for now, that was enough.

——

The study was quiet, the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air even years after the fire. Malcolm Grant sat in his worn leather armchair, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the armrest as his gaze fell on the empty spot on the bookshelf where his journals had once been.

He could still see them in his mind’s eye—stacks of carefully kept notebooks, their pages filled with his observations, discoveries, and warnings about the book’s power. He had spent years chronicling every interaction, every consequence, every ripple he could trace. And now, they were gone, reduced to ash and memory in a fire he couldn’t fully explain.

The fire had started in this very room, licking up the walls with a speed and precision that felt anything but natural. The book had survived, of course. It always did. But the journals, his life’s work, had vanished in an instant.

Malcolm leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He could recreate the notes, he supposed. Start fresh. But every time he’d considered it, a weight in his chest told him not to.

Is it better this way?

His granddaughter, Eleanor, would inherit the book one day—he had known that for years. The moment he’d seen her solve her first puzzle, her tiny fingers moving with an intuition far beyond her years, he’d known she was the one. The book had always been meant for her.

But what would his notes have given her?

Would they have helped her navigate the book’s power, or would they have skewed her understanding? Would she have followed his advice blindly or rejected it outright, seeking her own path?

Malcolm sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair.

It was better to let her learn directly, he thought. The book will likely teach her what it taught me without the filter of my fears and mistakes.

Still, the thought unsettled him. The book was powerful, but it was also dangerous in ways he still didn’t fully understand. Every interaction carried consequences, ripples that spread far beyond their initial impact. Even asking a simple question could set events into motion that could not be undone.

His gaze fell to the book resting on the small table beside his chair. Its ancient leather cover gleamed faintly in the dim light, and the brass corners were tarnished with age. The book seemed almost innocent, as though it couldn’t possibly carry the weight of so many lives and choices.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the cover, and hesitated.

Should I ask it? he wondered. Should I ask if I’m doing right by leaving her to discover the truth alone?

The question hovered in his mind, but he pulled his hand back.

No. It was too dangerous. Even asking something so simple could unleash consequences he couldn’t foresee. The book had a way of giving answers that were never as straightforward as they seemed, answers that twisted and turned, revealing truths that were as painful as they were enlightening.

Then his gaze lingered on the book for a moment longer, and a darker thought surfaced, one he had avoided for as long as he had possessed it.

There was one question—the question—that he had never dared to ask.

Where did the book come from?

It had haunted him for years, an itch at the back of his mind that he could never quite scratch. The book’s origins were a mystery, its age and purpose unknown. Did it come from some divine source? Was it a tool of balance, as he had come to believe? Or was it something else entirely, something more dangerous, more insidious?

He pressed his hands against the armrests, forcing himself to stay seated.

No, he thought. I won’t ask. I can’t.

Somehow, he knew that asking that question would change everything. It would be the kind of change that rewrote the game’s rules, the kind of change he could never undo. And change—actual, uncontrollable change—was the one thing he feared most.

Malcolm rose from his chair, leaving the book where it lay. He walked to the window and stared out at the fading light, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Let it be,” he murmured, as much to himself as to the book. “Let her decide for herself.”

And with that, he turned away, leaving the room and the question unanswered, the book’s secrets still waiting in the silence.

——

Eleanor tightened her grip on the strap of her bag as she left the bakery, a warm loaf of sourdough nestled inside. She glanced up at the cloudy sky, debating whether she should make a quick stop at the bookstore before heading home.

Then she saw him.

Caleb Montgomery stood just across the street, his tall frame unmistakable as he scanned the nearby shop windows. Eleanor’s stomach tightened. Her first instinct was to turn around, to slip back into the bakery or duck down the adjacent alley, but she hesitated. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to avoid him—or if she was afraid of what might happen if she didn’t.

She lingered too long, and his gaze caught hers.

“Eleanor!” His face lit up, and he crossed the street with an easy confidence that made her feel immediately awkward.

She forced a small smile, clutching her bag a little tighter as he approached.

“Caleb,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, his tone warm. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

“Likewise,” she replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, or if he did, he chose to ignore it. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just picking up a few things.” She gestured vaguely to the bakery behind her.

“Well, I’m glad I caught you,” Caleb said, his smile sheepish. “I’ve been meaning to stop by the library again, but things have gotten a little hectic with my research.”

Eleanor nodded, unsure of what to say. She had thought their connection would end after their initial meetings—his question answered, his mystery solved. The thought of him lingering in her orbit made her uneasy, though she couldn’t quite say why.

“How’s it going?” she asked, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

“It’s been fascinating, actually,” Caleb said, his enthusiasm unmistakable. “Your findings about Charles Dupont opened up so many new avenues. I’ve been digging into some local archives in New Orleans, and it’s incredible how much his influence extended beyond what anyone realized.”

“That’s… good,” Eleanor said, though she couldn’t help but feel a pang of anxiety at the mention of her findings. She knew how she’d uncovered the initial details, and the idea of him examining them too closely made her stomach churn.

Caleb hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s, uh, something I didn’t mention before. Something personal about this research.”

Eleanor frowned, tilting her head slightly. “Personal?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening. “I didn’t bring it up because I wasn’t sure how relevant it was, but now that I’ve gotten deeper into it… I feel like it’s only fair to tell you.”

She nodded slowly, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

“My grandmother,” he began, his gaze drifting as though searching for the right words. “She used to tell me stories about Louis Armstrong when I was a kid. She was a huge fan, but more than that, she claimed there was a family connection.”

Eleanor blinked, surprised. “A family connection?”

Caleb nodded. “She always said her uncle—my great-great-uncle, I guess—was someone Armstrong credited as a mentor. I always thought it was just a family legend, you know? Something exaggerated over the years. But then you found Charles Dupont, and… well, Dupont’s story lines up with hers in ways I can’t ignore.”

“That’s… interesting,” Eleanor said, though the word felt inadequate.

“It’s more than interesting,” Caleb said, his voice laced with quiet awe. “It’s like you gave me a thread to pull, and now this whole family story is unraveling into something real. Something I can prove.”

Eleanor didn’t know what to say. She had never considered the possibility that her work with Caleb might have such a personal resonance for him.

“I just wanted you to know,” he continued, his smile returning. “Because I didn’t tell you before, and… well, I wasn’t sure I should. But now, I feel like I owe you that honesty.”

She nodded, her discomfort softening into something more complicated. “Thank you for telling me.”

Caleb chuckled softly, glancing down at his shoes for a moment. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. It was just really nice to see you, Eleanor. And if you ever want to talk jazz history—or just grab coffee—I’d love to.”

Eleanor froze, caught off guard by the casual invitation. “I’ll… think about it,” she said, her voice unsteady.

He smiled, tipping his head in a subtle farewell. “No pressure. Take care, Eleanor.”

As he walked away, she stood rooted to the spot, her mind racing. The encounter had been awkward, yes, but also unexpectedly pleasant. And the idea that her work had helped him uncover something so personal made her chest feel strangely light.

For the first time in years, Eleanor wondered if connecting with someone wasn’t such a terrible thing after all.

——

Eleanor sat at her desk that evening, the sourdough loaf from the bakery untouched on the counter, her thoughts looping endlessly around a single phrase:

“Grab coffee.”

She had barely registered the invitation when Caleb said it, but now the words clung to her mind, gaining weight with each repetition. Grabbing coffee wasn’t just coffee. It was sitting across a table, making conversation, being seen. It was expectations—ones she might never be able to satisfy.

Eleanor exhaled slowly, her fingers drumming nervously against her desk. What would Caleb expect from her? Easy conversation? Laughter? Eye contact for more than two seconds? And what if it didn’t stop at coffee? What if coffee led to dinners, to…

She shut the thought down with a sharp shake of her head. “No,” she muttered to herself, as though saying it aloud could push the idea away.

But it wouldn’t go.

Her chest tightened at the idea of opening that door even a crack, exposing herself to a world of expectations she had spent years avoiding. Her work in the library was safe—patrons were faceless, nameless puzzles to solve, problems to fix without the messiness of personal connection. Caleb had already slipped through the cracks of that safety, and now the thought of stepping even further out of her carefully crafted isolation left her breathless.

She rubbed her temples, forcing her thoughts to shift to something else—anything else.

Her mind landed on Caleb’s revelation about his family.

His grandmother’s story about a familial connection to Louis Armstrong, passed down as a family legend, had blindsided her. It added a layer of complexity she hadn’t anticipated, and the more she thought about it, the more uneasy she felt.

Her findings about Charles Dupont had been precise and detailed, but the initial clue—the dinner that started it all—had come from the book. She hadn’t thought to ask for balance when she’d given Caleb the link to Dupont. It had seemed harmless, just a piece of history uncovered.

But was it?

Eleanor opened the book, staring at its blank pages as her fingers hovered above its cover. Did the balance matter in this case? If it didn’t, why had the book remained silent about it? And if it did—if there was a price for the information she had provided—what consequences might be set in motion?

She thought of Caleb’s growing excitement about his family’s connection to Dupont and Armstrong. If the book hadn’t required balance from her, did that mean balance was already being exacted elsewhere? Were there ripples forming, consequences spinning out of her control?

Her stomach churned at the thought. Caleb’s pursuit of the story was personal now, and personal connections always carried the potential for unintended consequences. She had seen it before, in the stories the book revealed—small actions leading to devastating outcomes, the price of imbalance paid in ways no one could predict.

What if the new connections Caleb was uncovering led to something dangerous?

Eleanor closed the book gently, her mind racing.

She hadn’t asked for balance when she gave Caleb the information about Charles Dupont. Did that mean there was no balance needed? Or did it mean that consequences were already brewing, outside of her awareness, waiting to surface when she least expected it?

The idea made her feel small and powerless, a single thread in a web far larger than she could see. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the book’s implications settled over her once again.

One thing was certain: whatever ripples she had set in motion, they would find her eventually. And when they did, she could only hope she was ready.

——

Caleb leaned back in his armchair, the soft light of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the papers before him. The notebook filled with his Charles Dupont research sat open, its pages scrawled with his messy handwriting and Eleanor Finch’s precise notes. His pen rested idly in his hand as his mind drifted far from the work.

Two thoughts looped relentlessly in his head, each demanding equal attention.

The first was the casual invitation he’d extended to Eleanor.

“…just grab coffee.”

The words had slipped out before he could think about them, a reflexive way to end their conversation on a friendly note. At the time, he hadn’t given them much weight, but now, sitting here alone, the idea had taken root.

He hadn’t meant it as anything significant, but the more he replayed their meeting, the more he realized he genuinely wanted to make it happen. He wanted to sit across from Eleanor in a quieter, more personal setting, free from the bustling world of the library. He wanted to know more about her—not just her work, but the woman behind it.

She fascinated him in ways he hadn’t expected. There was an understated brilliance to her, an intensity that shone through despite her quiet, hesitant demeanor. But more than that, a guarded vulnerability made him want to understand her, to see what lay behind the walls she so carefully maintained.

The problem, of course, was how to ask her without overwhelming her. Eleanor didn’t thrive on social interactions, and the idea of pushing too hard made him uneasy. He wanted her to feel comfortable, not cornered.

“Maybe I can start small,” he murmured, tapping the pen against his knee. “Something casual, like sharing a quick coffee at the library. See if she’s open to it.”

The idea brought a faint smile to his lips, but it faded as his second looping thought pushed its way forward: the dinner.

That first clue about Charles Dupont and Louis Armstrong had been the key that unlocked everything, but it still felt strange, almost too perfect. He’d been chasing Dupont’s shadow for years, following fragmented leads that went nowhere. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Eleanor handed him the missing piece that tied everything together.

How had she found it?

The more he thought about it, the more it nagged at him. Eleanor had explained her research in a way that sounded logical enough, but there had been a hesitation in her voice, a flicker of unease in her eyes. It was subtle, but Caleb wasn’t the type to miss details.

He didn’t doubt her findings—everything she had given him so far had checked out. But how she had uncovered that initial dinner remained a mystery. And mysteries were something he couldn’t leave unsolved.

Of course, the challenge was asking her about it without sounding accusatory. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel he didn’t trust her. Trust wasn’t the issue—it was curiosity. He had the overwhelming sense that Eleanor was hiding something, but whatever it was, it didn’t feel malicious. If anything, it seemed like she was protecting something… or herself.

“Maybe I can frame it as part of the research,” he muttered, flipping through the notebook absently. “Ask if she remembers where she first saw the reference and how she made the connection.”

But even as he said it, he knew the question carried weight. If she was as guarded as he suspected, pressing her too hard could shut her down entirely. He’d have to tread carefully to find the right balance between curiosity and respect.

Caleb closed the notebook and set it aside, running a hand through his hair. Both thoughts—the coffee and the dinner—were tangled together now, inseparable in his mind.

As he stared at the scattered papers on his desk, he resolved to approach both matters with care. He would find a way to ask her about the dinner without making her uncomfortable. And as for the coffee?

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He would ask her again, but this time, he’d ensure it didn’t feel like an afterthought. This time, he’d make it clear that he truly wanted to spend time with her.

The thought of her soft smile and nervous eyes filled his mind as he leaned back in his chair, letting the looping thoughts settle into determination. Eleanor Finch was a puzzle he wasn’t ready to put down.

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