The rain finally paused the next morning.

Not stopped—Willowridge never quite did that—but paused, like the sky had drawn in a breath and forgotten to let it go. The world outside the windows was still wet, but the clouds had thinned to a softer gray, and the air held a sharp, clean chill.

Sienna noticed the difference as soon as she stepped onto the street.

The silence was lighter without the constant drum of water. She could hear small things again—the distant clatter of delivery trucks, the faint bark of a dog, the soft squeak of her own shoes against damp pavement.

It felt strange.

She had grown used to the rain sounding like company.

By the time she reached the library, the awning was empty.

No Liam.

The realization hit faster than she wanted it to.

He’s not here.

Her steps faltered for half a second. Then she swallowed it down, pressed the key into the lock, and opened the door. The bell chimed its usual small sound, unchanged by her heartbeat.

She told herself he was just late.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

She told herself so many things she didn’t quite believe.

She shed her coat, turned on the lamps, and moved through the familiar motions of opening the library—straightening chairs, checking the computer, flipping the sign to OPEN. Her body worked on habit while her mind kept drifting to the empty space near the front, where he usually leaned against the wall with coffee in hand.

He’ll come.

Or he won’t.

Either way, the day goes on.

She was halfway through sorting the returns cart when the door opened again.

Her head snapped up before she could stop it.

Liam stepped inside, hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed from the wind. He was breathing a little faster than usual, like he’d rushed the last few steps. A paper bag was tucked under one arm, and his other hand held two cups.

“Sorry,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I’m late.”

Something unclenched in her chest so quickly it almost hurt.

“You’re not that late,” she said, trying for calm.

“I am,” he insisted. “And I brought evidence of my guilt.”

He held up the paper bag.

Sienna frowned. “That’s… breakfast?”

“Bribery,” he corrected. “From the bakery. They were backed up. I considered staging a peaceful coup.”

“You would lose,” she said.

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “But I’d lose on principle.”

She shook her head, but the corners of her mouth softened.

He set one of the cups on the counter in front of her and slid the bag over. Inside were two warm pastries, still fragrant with sugar and butter.

“You didn’t have to,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “I wanted to.”

She wondered if he knew how often he said that around her now.

He moved to his usual seat. The library slowly filled with the gentle sounds of a town adjusting to a break in the weather—boots squeaking on floors, umbrellas dripping quietly near the door, muffled conversations as people rediscovered what it was like to be outside without being drenched.

For a while, they didn’t talk much.

It was enough to know he was there.

Around midmorning, when the light outside shifted to a pale, tentative brightness, Sienna found herself staring at the window.

Clouds thinned. Somewhere behind them, the sun tried to push through.

A narrow shaft of light managed to slip between two buildings and land across the street, illuminating the wet pavement like a path made of glass.

“Looks strange, doesn’t it?” Liam said softly.

She hadn’t heard him get up, but now he was standing beside her, his shoulder almost brushing hers as he looked out at the street.

“The light,” he added when she glanced at him. “It always looks… too sharp after a storm.”

She turned back to the window. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not,” he said.

They watched as the thin beam of light inched along the sidewalk, stretching toward the library’s front steps but not quite reaching.

“The town feels different when it’s not raining,” Sienna said.

“How so?”

She thought about it. “Louder. But emptier.”

He considered that. “Rain makes everything smaller.”

“And closer,” she added quietly.

He looked at her then, really looked, and she felt his attention like warmth against her skin.

“Is that bad?” he asked.

She hesitated. “No.”

He smiled—small, satisfied. “Good.”

They stood there a little longer, watching the hesitant light inch along the street, neither fully comfortable with its presence, but neither turning away.

As the day went on, the clouds drifted again, swallowing the brightness. The rain didn’t return, but the sky slowly pulled its light back behind a muted veil.

It was almost a relief to Sienna when the world slipped back into soft gray.

During the afternoon lull, when Nora had gone to restock supplies and the last of the midday visitors had trickled out, Liam approached the counter with something in his hands.

“Found this in the back,” he said.

Sienna looked up.

He held an old library card between his fingers. The plastic was slightly yellowed around the edges, the barcode faded, the corners worn soft.

“Where did you—”

“Bottom of one of the drawers,” he said. “It’s got your name on it.”

He flipped the card around.

There it was. Her handwriting. Younger. Sharper. A version of her that had written in cleaner, more rigid strokes.

“Must’ve been one of the first ones you ever used,” he said.

She stared at it. “I thought I lost that years ago.”

“You did,” he said. “Technically. But it stayed anyway.”

He set it gently on the counter.

She picked it up, thumb brushing the surface. Memories flickered—distant, fogged around the edges. Late evenings as a teenager, curled between shelves. The first time she’d been allowed to stay after hours. The first time the library had felt like something more than a place with books.

“You kept this,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

He leaned his elbows on the counter, close enough that their arms nearly touched.

“Seems like the building did,” he said. “I just found it.”

She turned the card over again. “Most things don’t stay this long.”

“Some do,” he said. “They just get moved to different drawers.”

She looked up at him. Something about the way he said it felt heavier than the words themselves.

“You like staying,” she observed quietly.

He held her gaze, unflinching. “I do.”

“In places?” she asked.

“In places that deserve it,” he corrected softly. “And with people who do.”

Her pulse stuttered.

She set the card down carefully, as if it were something fragile.

“Do you have anything like this?” she asked. “Something that stayed longer than it should have?”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t have an answer, but because he seemed to be choosing which one to give her.

“My notebook, maybe,” he said eventually. “I started it in a place I didn’t think I’d stay. But somehow… it stayed with me anyway.”

“The one you bring here?”

He nodded. “Same one.”

“You’ve had it for how long?”

“Years.” He smiled faintly. “It’s survived four cities, two apartments, one very aggressive thunderstorm, and a regrettable laundromat incident.”

She huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “You washed your notebook?”

“Not on purpose.”

“Did it survive?”

“Mostly,” he said. “Some pages didn’t. The rest… wrinkled, but readable.”

“Wrinkled, but readable,” she repeated, the phrase catching on her tongue.

He tilted his head. “You like that?”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t have to.

The old library card lay between them on the wood, a small, solid proof that some things didn’t vanish just because she’d expected them to.

Some things stayed.  

Even when she didn’t look for them.

Even when she forgot they existed.

She wondered what else might stay without her permission.