Clara’s fingers trembled as she adjusted the violin’s chin rest, the wood still warm from her grip. The afternoon sun slanted through the bookstore’s dusty windows, casting long shadows over the shelves. She had never liked playing in front of people, but the owner had insisted—‘a little music to draw customers in,’ he’d said. The words felt like a dare. She pressed the bow to the strings and let the first note ring out, sharp and uncertain. A few patrons glanced up, then returned to their books. The sound of rain began, soft at first, then a steady rhythm against the roof. Clara’s breath quickened. She had always hated the rain.
The door jingled. A man stepped inside, shaking water from his coat. His dark hair was damp, clinging to his forehead. He hesitated, scanning the room, then walked toward the classical section. Clara’s eyes followed him. He didn’t look up as he ran his fingers along the spines of the books, but she could see the way his shoulders tensed, as if bracing for something. When he finally turned, his gaze met hers. There was no hesitation in his eyes—only a quiet curiosity. She looked away, her cheeks burning.
Later, after the last customer had left, he approached. ‘You played beautifully,’ he said. His voice was low, steady. Clara shrugged, rolling the violin back into its case. ‘It’s just a hobby.’
‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘The way you held the bow—it wasn’t for show.’
She studied him then, really looked. He was older than she expected, maybe in his late twenties. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, unreadable. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jordan,’ he said. ‘I’m the new librarian.’
The word hung between them. Clara had never been to the library. She didn’t need books to escape. She had her music.
‘You should play more often,’ Jordan said. ‘People need that kind of sound.’
She wanted to argue, but the rain had stopped. A single shaft of light cut through the room, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the air. For a moment, everything felt suspended, as if the world had paused to listen.
—
Jordan found her again the next day, standing in the alley behind the bookstore, her violin case open at her feet. The rain had left the pavement slick, reflecting the gray sky. She didn’t look up when he approached.
‘You didn’t finish,’ he said.
Clara exhaled sharply. ‘I don’t do encores.’
He crouched beside her, the movement deliberate. ‘What’s the song?’
She hesitated. ‘It’s… unfinished.’
Jordan tilted his head. ‘Then play it again.’
She didn’t want to. The melody had been hers alone, a secret she carried like a wound. But something in his voice—something quiet and unyielding—made her lift the violin. The first note was uncertain, then grew bolder. The alley seemed to shrink around them, the walls closing in as the music filled the space. When she finished, her hands were shaking.
Jordan didn’t speak. He simply nodded, as if he had expected this all along. ‘You’re afraid,’ he said finally.
Clara looked at him. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m not leaving.’
—
The library was quiet that evening, the only sound the soft creak of the floorboards beneath their footsteps. Jordan led her to a corner where the shelves curved like a half-circle, creating an intimate space. A single lamp cast a warm glow over the books. Clara hesitated at the edge of the room.
‘Why here?’ she asked.
Jordan turned, his expression unreadable. ‘Because it’s private.’
She didn’t believe him. ‘You’ve been following me.’
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’ve been watching you. You’re hard to miss.’
Clara crossed her arms. ‘That’s not true.’
‘It is,’ he said. ‘You stand out. Like a song no one expects to hear.’
She wanted to laugh, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she stepped closer. ‘What do you want from me?’
Jordan’s gaze dropped to her hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But I can’t stop thinking about you.’
The air between them felt charged, like the moment before a storm. Clara’s pulse quickened. She had spent years building walls, but Jordan seemed to see through them, unearthing something raw and unspoken. She wanted to run, but her feet remained rooted to the floor.
‘I’m not good at this,’ she said.
‘Neither am I,’ he replied. ‘But maybe we can learn together.’
—
They began meeting regularly, each encounter more deliberate than the last. Jordan would appear at the bookstore, always at the same time, as if he had planned it. Clara started leaving her violin out, just in case. The music became a language between them—unspoken but understood. They talked about everything and nothing, their conversations weaving through laughter and silence.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Jordan invited her to a concert at the community center. ‘It’s a local group,’ he said. ‘They play classical pieces, but with a twist.’
Clara hesitated. She had never been to a live performance. ‘What if I don’t like it?’
Jordan grinned. ‘Then we’ll leave.’
The concert was everything she had imagined and more. The musicians filled the room with sound, each note resonating in her bones. Afterward, they walked through the town, the streets empty except for the occasional car passing by. The air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain.
‘You liked it,’ Jordan said, as if it were a revelation.
Clara smiled. ‘It was… beautiful.’
He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. The touch sent a jolt through her, but she didn’t pull away. ‘I like you,’ he said simply.
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Clara’s heart pounded. She had spent so long guarding her heart, but Jordan had found a way in. ‘I like you too,’ she whispered.
—
But the summer was fleeting. As the days grew shorter, so did their time together. Jordan had to leave for a job opportunity in another city, a chance he couldn’t pass up. Clara didn’t try to stop him, though her chest ached with the weight of it.
‘I’ll come back,’ he promised, his voice steady. ‘This isn’t over.’
She wanted to believe him, but fear crept in. What if he changed? What if he forgot her? She had seen it happen before—people disappearing, leaving behind only echoes.
The last night they spent together, they sat on the edge of the lake, the water still and dark. The stars reflected on the surface, mirroring the sky above. Jordan was quiet, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
‘You’re scared,’ he said at last.
Clara nodded. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’
He turned to her, his expression soft. ‘You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.’
She wanted to trust him, but the doubt lingered. ‘What if you change your mind?’
Jordan cupped her face in his hands, his touch gentle. ‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve never felt this way before. You’re the only one who makes me feel like I belong.’
Clara closed her eyes, the words settling deep within her. When she opened them, she saw the truth in his gaze—unshaken, unwavering. She reached up, pressing her lips to his, and for a moment, everything else faded away.
—
The following year was hard. Distance stretched between them like a chasm, each message and call a fragile thread. Clara threw herself into her music, pouring her heart into every note. Jordan sent her recordings of his work, his voice carrying the weight of longing. They wrote letters, each one more desperate than the last.
Then, one day, he arrived at her doorstep, his suitcase in hand. The rain had started again, but he didn’t seem to mind. Clara met him at the door, her heart racing.
‘I couldn’t stay away,’ he said.
She didn’t say anything. She just pulled him inside, the door closing behind them as the storm raged outside. They didn’t speak for a long time, just held each other, the silence saying everything words couldn’t.
In that moment, Clara knew—no matter what came next, they would face it together.
