The library smelled of old paper and lemon polish, the way it had for 34 years. I shelved a worn copy of Bridge Design Principles and listened to the radiator hum, the only company most evenings asked of me.
At 56, I had made peace with quiet. Peace with the worn cardigan, the single mug, and the cat that wasn’t mine but visited, anyway.
My twenties, thirties, and most of my forties had belonged to my parents after their car crash.
My twenties, thirties, and most of my forties had belonged to my parents after their car crash. Wheelchairs, prescriptions, sponge baths. Love, the romantic kind, had knocked on other doors.
Then came Daniel.
He came in every Thursday at four looking for something dense and mechanical, then stayed until closing with those calloused hands, quiet eyes, and a laugh that caught both of us off guard the first time it slipped out.
“Margaret,” he murmured one Thursday, sliding a book across the counter, “do you ever read these, or do you just judge the men who do?”