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 was seated at the circulation desk, her fingers absently adjusting a stack of returned books as her eyes darted to the atrium. The morning light poured through the tall windows, filling the space with a warm, diffused glow. It was calm and quiet—the kind of morning she normally found comforting.

But today, her thoughts were tangled, weighed down by the events of the previous day. The book was back at her desk, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the way it had been crucial in averting a disaster. And then there was the promise…

A familiar figure caught her eye. Caleb.

He strolled into the atrium, carrying two coffee cups in one hand and his leather bag slung over his shoulder. His gaze swept the room briefly before landing on her, and a warm, easy smile spread across his face.

Eleanor’s heart skipped.

She adjusted the books on the desk again, busying herself as he approached, though she knew it was futile. By the time he reached the desk, she was already bracing herself.

“Good morning,” Caleb said, setting one of the cups in front of her. “Hazelnut latte, right?”

Eleanor glanced at the cup, then up at him, offering a polite smile. “Good memory.”

“I’m good at details,” he replied with a grin, leaning casually against the desk.

She nodded, taking the cup and wrapping her hands around it, the warmth grounding her slightly.

“You’ve been a tough one to catch lately,” Caleb said lightly. “I stopped by yesterday, but you weren’t around.”

Eleanor’s grip on the cup tightened briefly. “I had to step out,” she said simply, avoiding his gaze.

Caleb hummed, letting the comment hang as he reached into his bag and pulled out his notebook. “Well, I’m glad I caught you today. I wanted to share something.”

She watched as he flipped through the pages, landing on a section brimming with notes and clippings. He turned the notebook toward her, pointing to a highlighted passage.

“This,” he said, “is incredible. Your lead about Charles Dupont has opened up so many new avenues. I’ve been digging through local archives, and it’s all coming together—his role in the jazz clubs, his support of young musicians… everything fits.”

Eleanor nodded, her throat tightening. She knew what was coming next.

“And then there’s that dinner,” Caleb continued, his tone casual but deliberate. “The one between Dupont and Armstrong. Such a pivotal moment, really. The kind of thing that’s easy to overlook, you know? But you found it.”

He glanced at her, his eyes sharp yet unassuming. “Fortunate,” he said, the word hanging in the air.

Eleanor swallowed, her fingers gripping the edge of her cup. “I just… got lucky,” she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended.

“Lucky,” Caleb repeated thoughtfully, nodding. “Well, however you did it, it’s impressive. That connection has been a goldmine.”

She offered a faint, nervous smile, but before she could respond, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Thomas was passing by, a stack of books balanced on one arm as he glanced in her direction.

Eleanor’s stomach twisted.

Her gaze flicked back to Caleb, who was now studying her more closely, his expression soft but perceptive. He had noticed the glance, and his curiosity deepened.

“Well,” he said, closing the notebook and tucking it back into his bag. “Thanks again, Eleanor. You’ve been a huge help with all of this. I’ll let you know how the rest of the research unfolds.”

She nodded stiffly, her voice failing her.

As Caleb turned and walked away, Eleanor exhaled slowly, the tension in her chest easing only slightly.

She looked down at the coffee cup in her hands, the warmth seeping through her fingers. The conversation had been subtle, but his pointed observations were impossible to ignore.

And then there was Thomas, whose lingering glances felt like silent questions she didn’t know how to answer.

The book sat upstairs, silent and still, but its presence loomed over everything, pulling her deeper into a web of truths and secrets she wasn’t sure she could untangle.

——

Eleanor was still at the circulation desk, gripping her coffee cup and staring at the atrium doors Caleb had just walked through. Her heart was still racing, the conversation replaying in her mind like a loop she couldn’t escape. She felt exposed, as though he’d seen something she hadn’t meant to show.

The library was quiet again, save for the faint rustling of pages and the soft footsteps of patrons. She tried to steady her breathing, telling herself to move on, to focus on the work waiting upstairs.

And then Caleb came back.

The doors swung open, and he stepped in, his stride purposeful yet unhurried. Eleanor froze, her grip tightening on the cup as he approached the desk once more.

“Sorry to bother you again,” he said, his tone warm but slightly sheepish. “I completely forgot the main reason I stopped by.”

“Oh?” she managed, her voice more strained than she’d intended.

Caleb smiled, leaning casually against the desk. “There’s an event happening tomorrow evening—an outdoor jazz performance in the park. Some local musicians are putting it together, and it sounds like it’s going to be amazing. I thought… well, since you’ve been so instrumental in my research, it’d be fun to go together.”

Eleanor’s stomach flipped.

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, she could picture it: the two of them sitting under the open sky, music filling the air, conversation flowing as easily as the melodies. But as quickly as the thought came, fear crowded it out.

“I…” she started, her voice catching. “I don’t think I can. I have… plans.”

It was a lie, and she knew it was painfully obvious.

Caleb’s expression fell slightly, disappointment flickering in his eyes. “Oh,” he said, straightening. “Well, maybe another time.”

Eleanor’s chest tightened, guilt mingling with relief. But then Caleb’s demeanor shifted, his easy smile returning as he quickly added, “Actually, you know what? Forget the concert. How about coffee instead? There’s that place just down the street from here—why don’t we meet there tomorrow morning before work?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the change in tone. “Coffee?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “No pressure–just a quick coffee. The same coffee we are drinking now,” he glances down at their coffees, then looks back up at her, “but a block away. My treat.”

Eleanor hesitated, the familiar knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. But his smile was disarming, his invitation so casual that it felt harder to refuse than to accept.

“Okay,” she said finally, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

“Great,” Caleb said, his grin widening. “Let’s say 8:30?”

She nodded, her heart pounding as she watched him turn and head for the door again. “See you tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder, his voice light and cheerful.

As the doors swung shut behind him, Eleanor let out a shaky breath, her mind spinning.

She was both excited and terrified.

Was it a date? It didn’t feel like one—Caleb had been so relaxed about it, as though it were just a friendly gesture. But still, the idea of meeting him outside of the library, in a setting that wasn’t tied to work or research, made her stomach churn with nerves.

What would they talk about? What would he expect? What did she expect?

Eleanor stared down at the coffee cup in her hands, her thoughts a tangle of hope, fear, and a faint, flickering excitement she hadn’t felt in years.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would find out.

——

The library was quiet, the faint sound of chairs moving blending with the soft rustle of pages as the last few patrons prepared to leave. Eleanor sat at her desk, sorting through a small pile of overdue notices and jotting down reminders for the next day’s tasks.

Thomas appeared at the edge of her desk, carrying a stack of books to shelve before closing. His easy smile was a welcome sight after a long, tense day.

“So,” he said, setting the books down with a soft thud, “what’s on the agenda tomorrow? Anything exciting?”

Eleanor glanced up, grateful for the normalcy of the question. “The usual, I suppose. A few archival requests, some new arrivals to catalog.” She hesitated, then added, “Oh, and there’s that display you mentioned—something about local history?”

“Right,” Thomas said, nodding. “I’ll start pulling materials for that first thing. Should be straightforward.”

Eleanor smiled faintly. “Famous last words.”

Thomas chuckled, then shifted his weight, preparing to leave. But as he turned to go, he paused, his expression softening.

“Oh, and Eleanor,” he said, leaning slightly on the desk, “good luck tomorrow. With Caleb.”

Eleanor froze, her pen hovering above her notebook.

“What?” she asked, her voice faint.

Thomas grinned. “You know, the coffee thing? It’s written all over you. You’re nervous, but excited. So, just… enjoy it, okay?”

Eleanor felt her cheeks flush. She opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words.

Thomas’s grin widened as he straightened up. “Seriously, let me know how it goes. I’ll want all the details.”

As he turned to leave, Eleanor blurted out, “I’m terrified.”

Thomas stopped mid-step and turned back, his brow furrowing as he looked at her more closely. He set the books back on the desk and sat down in the chair across from her. “Okay,” he said, his tone gentle. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Eleanor stared at the stack of notices in front of her, twisting her fingers together. “I don’t… I don’t know what to expect,” she admitted. “And Caleb—he’s so…”

“Charming?” Thomas supplied, leaning back with a knowing smile.

“Observant,” Eleanor corrected, though she couldn’t deny the first word fit too. “I feel like he sees too much. And I’m not… I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?” Thomas asked.

“People,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas tilted his head, studying her. “You’re better than you think,” he said after a moment. “You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Eleanor hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the desk. “It’s not just that,” she said, her voice faltering. “There’s… something else. Something I haven’t told anyone.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t interrupt.

Eleanor took a deep breath, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “It’s the book. The one on my desk.”

Thomas frowned slightly, confused. “The old leather one? What about it?”

“It’s not just a book,” she said, her voice trembling. “It… tells me things. Shows me things. Answers questions I don’t know how to answer on my own.”

Thomas stared at her, his brow furrowing further. “You’re serious.”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I know it sounds insane, but it’s real. That woman—her custody case—I used the book to find what she needed. And it worked. It always works.”

Thomas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Eleanor… why are you telling me this?”

She looked down at her hands, her voice soft. “Because I needed to tell someone. I can’t talk to my mom about it—she’d only make it worse. And you… you’re the only one I trust.”

Thomas was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he let out a slow breath and said, “Okay. Let’s say I believe you. What does that mean for you?”

Eleanor glanced at the book, her chest tightening. “It means I’m responsible,” she said. “For the answers. For the consequences. And I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”

Thomas nodded slowly, his gaze steady. “Well,” he said, his tone lighter now, “I think you’re doing the best you can. And that’s all anyone can do.”

Eleanor looked up at him, surprised by the simplicity of his response.

He smiled. “You’re not alone, Eleanor. You’ve got me. And as for tomorrow—just enjoy the coffee, okay? It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

She felt a flicker of relief, the weight on her chest easing slightly. She shared a few more details, then fell quiet. His face was open and accepting as she looked up at him.

“Thanks, Thomas,” she said softly.

“Anytime,” he replied, standing and grabbing his books. He paused at the door, throwing her one last grin. “And seriously—good luck tomorrow. You’ve got this.”

As he walked away, Eleanor glanced at the book on her desk. For the first time, she felt a little less alone.

——

The library was quiet now, the last patron gone, the doors locked for the night. Thomas stood in the empty atrium, staring at the rows of books that stretched into the dim corners of the space. His mind was spinning with what Eleanor had just told him.

A book that shows her answers? It sounded impossible—more than impossible. But then again, Eleanor wasn’t the type to make up stories. If she said it was true… well, maybe it was.

Still, the idea nagged at him, pulling at the rational part of his mind. He paced slowly, running a hand through his hair as he tried to process everything.

She had called the book dangerous, had spoken about consequences and promises. That wasn’t just eccentricity—that was fear. Real fear.

He thought back to the many times Eleanor had pulled answers seemingly out of thin air. The dinner between Charles Dupont and Louis Armstrong, the exact location of a lost family heirloom, even the recent crisis with the custody case. She appeared with the perfect solution each time, like a magician revealing a rabbit from a hat.

At the time, he’d chalked it up to her uncanny ability to research, to sift through mountains of data and find connections no one else could see. But now…

“Maybe it wasn’t just that,” he murmured, his voice echoing faintly in the empty space.

He leaned against the circulation desk, staring into the darkness beyond the stacks. If the book really did what Eleanor claimed, it would explain a lot. It wasn’t just luck or skill that had brought her those answers—it was something more.

But did he believe her?

Thomas sighed, rubbing his temples. Whether or not he believed in the book, one thing was clear: Eleanor believed in it. She believed enough to carry its weight, to lock it away, to protect it like it was both a treasure and a curse.

And whether it was real magic or just a way for her to channel her own intuition, it didn’t matter. The facts lined up.

“She’s not crazy,” he said to himself, more firmly this time.

Eleanor was smart—brilliant, even—and careful. If she trusted the book, then he would trust her.

Thomas straightened, feeling a flicker of resolve. Whatever this was, whatever the book meant to her, he would support her. She clearly needed someone in her corner, someone who wouldn’t question her or make her feel like she was losing her grip.

“Magic book or not,” he muttered, “she’s doing her best. And that’s good enough for me.”

With one last glance at the desk where Eleanor had sat earlier, Thomas turned and headed for the door. The library was dark now, and the echoes of the day’s conversations lingered faintly in the air.

He locked the doors behind him and stepped into the cool night, his thoughts still circling Eleanor and her mysterious book.

No matter what happened, he’d be there for her.

——

Eleanor sat in her living room, the soft glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the room. The book was on the coffee table in front of her, its leather cover gleaming faintly, as if daring her to touch it. She didn’t.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around her knees, her mind spinning with the events of the day. She had told Thomas.

The thought both comforted and terrified her.

On one hand, she felt lighter than she had in weeks. The weight of carrying the book’s secrets alone had been unbearable at times. Finally, someone else knew. She had spoken the words out loud, named the power that had shaped her life since the day the trunk arrived. And Thomas—well, he hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t called her crazy or walked out. He had listened.

And yet…

Eleanor’s fingers tightened against her knees. What if she had made a mistake?

Thomas might still think she was insane. Maybe he was just humoring her, waiting for the right moment to call someone and have her committed. Or worse, what if he believed her? Truly believed her?

The thought sent a shiver through her.

What if he tried to use her? To use the book? Its power was intoxicating, undeniable. She had seen what it could do, the lives it could change—for better or worse. If Thomas saw the potential, saw the answers it could provide, what would stop him from trying to take advantage of it?

Eleanor shook her head, trying to push the thought away. Thomas wasn’t like that. He was kind, patient, loyal. He wouldn’t betray her. Would he?

Her gaze drifted to the book.

Why did I have to tell him? she thought, guilt twisting in her stomach.

But she knew the answer. She couldn’t carry this alone. Not anymore.

Her mom had been out of the question from the start. The mere thought of bringing it up made Eleanor’s stomach churn. Her mother had spent years warning her to stay away from her grandfather’s influence, dismissing his puzzles and riddles as dangerous nonsense. If she found out about the book…

No, her mom would be the worst person to tell.

And Caleb?

Eleanor’s chest tightened at the thought of him. Caleb was charming, kind, and far too perceptive. There was something about him that unsettled her, something magnetic and unshakable. Being around him was a whirlwind of emotions: stressful, wonderful, terrifying.

Adding the book to that mix? Unthinkable. Caleb was already curious about how she had found the lead on Charles Dupont and Louis Armstrong. If she told him the truth, would he believe her? Or would he press her for more? The thought of his probing questions made her feel exposed. Vulnerable.

But her mom…

Eleanor sighed, burying her face in her hands.

She knew she would have to talk to her mom eventually. Her mother was the only person who had been there before, who might know what the book really was or where it had come from. But that conversation would come with its own dangers, its own emotional minefields.

“Not yet,” she whispered to herself. “Not yet.”

Eleanor leaned back against the couch, her eyes drifting back to the book. The relief she had felt after talking to Thomas warred with her anxiety about what might come next.

For now, the secret was out. She wasn’t carrying it alone anymore. But that didn’t mean she felt safe.

Not yet.

——

Eleanor’s mother, Margaret, sat alone in her living room, the television murmuring faintly in the background. She wasn’t paying attention to it, her mind drifting instead to her daughter.

She told herself it was worry for Eleanor’s safety and happiness, the kind of motherly concern that never truly faded. But deep down, she knew it was more than that.

Margaret shifted uncomfortably in her chair, trying to focus on the crocheting in her lap. She had promised herself years ago that she wouldn’t dwell on the past, that she wouldn’t let the memories creep in and cloud her judgment. But they came anyway, unbidden and relentless.

The memory began, as it always did, with her father.

She had been a girl then, barely thirteen, but old enough to sense the tension in the house. Her father, Malcolm, had always been a man of riddles and secrets, his life a puzzle she could never quite solve. He spent hours in his study, poring over books and papers, speaking in cryptic terms about balance and promises.

Margaret’s own failure with the puzzle box had been the moment she realized she would never be the center of his world. She had tried, so desperately, to understand him, to make him see her. But his attention was always elsewhere—focused on his riddles, his puzzles, and, most of all, that book.

The book.

It was always near him. If it wasn’t open on his desk, it was tucked under his arm or sitting in his lap as he read its pages with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

But when it wasn’t near him, it was locked away.

Margaret had noticed the pattern. Her father kept the book in an old trunk in his study, the same trunk he had inherited from his own father. She had watched him unlock it countless times, placing the book inside before turning the key and tucking it into his pocket.

She had never dared ask him about it, not directly. But she had watched.

One day her opportunity came.

Her father had left the house in a rush, muttering about an errand that couldn’t wait. Margaret lingered in the hallway outside his study, her heart pounding as she noticed something unusual.

The trunk was still locked, but the book wasn’t inside. It sat on the credenza behind his desk, its leather cover catching the light from the window.

He hadn’t locked it away.

She stepped into the study, her palms sweating as she approached the desk. The book seemed to draw her in, its presence heavy and magnetic. She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing the smooth leather before she opened it.

The pages were blank.

Margaret frowned, her excitement dimming. She had expected something—words, diagrams, secrets—but the book was empty.

Disappointed, she ran her hand over one of the blank pages, her fingers tracing its edges. She whispered to herself, “Where did you come from?”

And then it happened.

Words began to appear, dark ink flowing across the page as though invisible hands were writing them. Margaret tried to stumble back, her breath catching in her throat, but couldn’t remove her hand from the page. She leaned forward, watching fearfully as the story unfolded.

It was a dark tale, one of origins shrouded in shadow. A desperate and reckless man had struck a bargain with forces beyond comprehension. He had been given the book in exchange for a promise—a promise that he would use it wisely and respect the balance. But the man had failed, and the consequences had been devastating.

As Margaret read, the words began to blur. Her vision swam, and a sharp pain shot through her temple. She winced, gripping the edge of the desk for support, but the pain only grew worse.

The letters on the page started to shift and twist, their shapes warping into incomprehensible patterns. It was as though the book was alive, fighting back against her intrusion.

Margaret tried to pull away, but her hand remained glued to the page, her mind spinning as fragments of the story continued to spill out:

“The book demands balance. Promises must be kept. To break them is to invite ruin.”

The pain became unbearable, a searing heat radiating through her skull. Margaret cried out, collapsing to her knees as the room spun around her. Her hand was released, and the book snapped shut, the sound echoing like a thunderclap in the small study.

She lay there for what felt like an eternity, her breath coming in shallow gasps. When she finally managed to push herself up, her head throbbed, and the story she had glimpsed was fragmented and incomplete.

But it was enough.

She knew then that the book was not just a tool—it was a trap, a force that demanded more than anyone could ever give. And her father, so consumed by its power, had chosen it over everything else.

Sitting in her living room now, Margaret shivered at the memory.

She had spent years trying to forget that day, trying to bury the fear and resentment that had taken root in her heart. But the book’s shadow lingered, and now, it was in Eleanor’s hands.

Margaret tightened her grip on the crocheting, her knuckles white.

She told herself she was worried for Eleanor’s safety and was afraid of what the book might demand of her daughter. And she was. But also, deep down, she knew the truth: She was jealous. It should have been her.

——

Eleanor arrived at the café, stepping inside with a mix of nerves and hesitation. The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, and the quiet hum of conversation made the space feel oddly intimate.

Her eyes darted around, looking for Caleb, but he had not arrived. She quickly made her way to a small table near the window. She slid into the seat and carefully set her satchel on the floor beside her. The book was tucked inside, its presence a constant weight she couldn’t forget.

She folded her hands on the table, staring down at them as her heart pounded. Should she order now? Would it be rude to start without him? Or would it seem strange to wait? She had no idea.

This was the first time she had ever agreed to meet someone like this—outside of work, outside of her carefully structured routine. The uncertainty of it all made her stomach churn.

Eventually, she decided to wait. Ordering felt too bold, too presumptuous. Instead, she leaned back slightly, turning her gaze to the window. The sidewalk outside was alive with motion, people passing in quick strides or slow meanders, their expressions ranging from hurried to serene.

Eleanor watched them absently, her thoughts swirling. Who were they? What brought them here today? She found herself wondering about their lives, their stories, the choices that had shaped them.

And then, it happened.

A man in a blue coat walked past, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Eleanor’s gaze lingered on him, and as she did, it was as if an invisible page unfurled in her mind.

The book.

She could see it, its pages turning, the faint flow of ink forming words. She wasn’t touching it, hadn’t even opened the satchel, but the story began to write itself anyway:

“John Francis, 48. Once a promising architect, now a man struggling with the weight of failure. The blueprint of his life unraveled after a single devastating mistake…”

Eleanor gasped softly, gripping the edge of the table. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as if to dislodge her vision.

This isn’t real. It’s just my imagination. It has to be.

But the story had felt so vivid, the words so precise. And the book—it had never worked without her touch before. Why now?

Her breathing quickened as panic crept in. She clenched the table harder, willing the vision to stop, to disappear.

“Eleanor?”

The sound of Caleb’s voice snapped her back to reality. She opened her eyes to find him standing in front of her, a slight frown creasing his brow as he looked at her with concern.

“Oh,” she said quickly, forcing a shaky smile. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she lied, her voice a touch too bright. “Just… lost in thought.”

Caleb studied her momentarily, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he smiled, sliding into the seat across from her and signaling the server.

“Well, I’m glad you waited,” he said lightly. “I know I’m late, but traffic was worse than usual.”

Eleanor nodded, still trying to calm her racing heart. She glanced out the window again, but the man in the blue coat was gone, leaving only the faint echo of his story lingering in her mind.

As Caleb began to talk, she forced herself to focus on his words, pushing the unsettling moment aside. But the question remained, nagging at the edges of her thoughts:

Was that real?

——

Eleanor practically floated through the library doors that morning, the deep quiet of the empty library and the faint scent of old paper greeting her like an old friend. The usual weight in her chest, the tight knot of anxiety that followed her everywhere lately, felt lighter somehow.

She began her morning routine with a new energy, flipping on the lights one row at a time, watching as the library came to life under her careful guidance. The stacks glowed softly, each corner of her domain illuminated. She ran her fingers along the spines of books as she moved through the aisles, a faint smile on her face.

By the time Thomas arrived, she was at the circulation desk, organizing a small stack of returns. He stepped through the atrium, a paper coffee cup in hand, and raised an eyebrow when he saw her expression.

“Well, good morning,” he said, his voice playful. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

Eleanor turned to him, her smile widening. “It went well,” she said simply, the words spilling out in a rush of relief.

Thomas tilted his head. “Coffee?”

She nodded eagerly. “We talked about everything—music, books, even the weather. He walked me to the library door afterward. It was terrifying, but…” She paused, her cheeks flushing slightly. “It was easier than I thought it could be.”

Thomas grinned, leaning against the edge of the desk. The look on her face—the mix of nervous excitement and cautious optimism—was something he hadn’t seen in her before. It reminded him of the early days with his partner, Christopher, when every conversation felt like an adventure and every shared moment was a revelation.

“I’m happy for you,” he said sincerely. “You deserve this.”

Eleanor glanced around the library, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The best part,” she said, “is we didn’t even talk about the jazz research. Not once. I didn’t have to lie to him about my source.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief as she said it, as though a great weight had been lifted. “That’s the hardest part about spending time with him,” she admitted, her tone quieter now. “Hiding the truth. I hate it.”

Thomas’s expression softened, and he set his coffee down, crossing his arms as he looked at her. “Eleanor,” he said gently, “you don’t owe him—or anyone—an explanation about the book. This is your story to tell, and you don’t have to share it until you’re ready.”

She looked at him, her eyes searching his face for any sign of doubt or judgment.

He smiled. “Keep your privacy. It’s fine. Caleb likes you for you, not because you’re some incredible researcher—which you are, by the way. When you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, you can decide what to tell him. Until then, don’t feel pressured.”

Eleanor let out a slow breath, her smile returning. “Thank you, Thomas,” she said softly.

“Always,” he replied, grabbing his coffee and heading toward the stacks. “Now, go enjoy your buoyant mood while it lasts. I’m sure something will come along to stress you out soon enough.”

Eleanor laughed, her spirits lifting even higher. As she turned back to her work, she couldn’t help but feel grateful—for Thomas, for Caleb, and for the small steps she was finally taking toward a life that felt fuller and less lonely.

For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that things might actually be okay

She adjusted her satchel where the book was tucked away, brushing her fingers lightly against the leather cover through the fabric.

Standing back up, she noticed something on the desk—a faint smudge of ink, dark and fresh, where her hand had just been.

She frowned, wiping at it with a tissue, but the ink didn’t budge. Instead, the stain spread slightly, seeping into the desk itself.

A chill ran through her as she quickly pulled her hand away. She glanced at her fingertips, but they were clean—no ink, no residue.

The smudge remained, faint but stubborn, its edges curling subtly, almost like the beginning of a word.

Eleanor forced herself to look away, her chest tightening as she busied herself with the stack of books. But the lingering stain remained in her peripheral vision, an unsettling reminder that the book was never truly silent.

As she walked away, the faint impression on the desk began to fade—until it was gone entirely, leaving no trace that it had ever been there.

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