Clara’s fingers traced the spines of books in the dim glow of the library’s overhead lights, each touch a silent conversation with stories she’d memorized. The air smelled of aged paper and lavender, a scent that clung to her like a second skin. She’d worked at the Maplewood Public Library for five years, her days structured by the rhythm of patrons and the creak of floorboards beneath her feet. But today, something felt different—like the silence had thickened, pressing against her ears.
The bell above the door jingled, and Clara glanced up. A man stood in the threshold, his guitar case slung over one shoulder, boots scuffing the worn wood floor. He was taller than she expected, his dark hair tousled as if he’d just stepped off a stage. The way he tilted his head, studying the room, made her pulse quicken. She’d never seen him before.
“Is this the place?” His voice was gravel and honey, rough around the edges but warm. He stepped closer, and Clara noticed the faint scent of tobacco and rain clinging to him. “I heard you had a collection of old jazz records.”
She nodded, unsure why her throat felt tight. “We do. But it’s not open to the public yet.”
“Then I’ll wait.” He leaned against the counter, his smile crooked. “I’ve got time.”
Clara frowned, but before she could respond, the front door swung open again. A woman in a red coat burst in, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. “Jace!” she called, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “You said you’d be here by noon.”
The man—Jace—turned, his smile fading. “I had to stop and…” He hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s not like you were waiting for me.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here with her?” She gestured toward Clara, her expression a mix of disdain and curiosity. “What’s she, some kind of librarian?”
Clara stiffened, but Jace didn’t look away from the woman. “She’s not part of this.”
The woman scoffed, turning on her heel. “You always were terrible at choosing sides.”
As she left, Clara felt the weight of Jace’s gaze on her. “Who was that?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
Jace exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “An ex. A complicated one.”
Clara didn’t know why she asked. She didn’t need to know about his past. But something about the way he said it—like it was a wound he’d learned to live with—made her want to press further. Instead, she turned back to the shelves, her fingers brushing against a weathered copy of “The Hours.”
“You like that one?” Jace asked, his voice softer now.
She glanced at him. “It’s… quiet. Like this place.”
He smiled, and for a moment, the tension in the air seemed to lift. “Maybe that’s why you’re here.”
The bell jingled again, and Clara realized she’d been holding her breath. She didn’t know what to say next, so she said nothing at all.
—
Jace returned the next day, and the day after that. He always came at the same time, just after noon, his guitar case clutched like a shield. Clara began to expect him, her days shifting around his arrival. They talked about books, music, and the way the sun slanted through the library’s tall windows. He told her about his tours, the cities he’d played in, and the nights he’d spent chasing something he couldn’t name. She told him about her mother’s illness, the way she’d learned to live with silence after the doctors had given up.
“You don’t talk much,” Jace said one afternoon, his fingers idly strumming a chord on his guitar. “But when you do, it’s like you’re holding back something big.”
Clara looked up from the stack of books she was organizing. “Maybe I’m just not good at saying things out loud.”
“Or maybe you’re scared of what they’ll mean.” He didn’t look at her, but his voice was steady, as if he’d already said it a hundred times before.
She wanted to argue, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she turned back to the books, her hands moving mechanically.
Jace didn’t press further. He just sat on the edge of the counter, strumming softly, his eyes on the window. The sound filled the space between them, neither awkward nor comfortable, but something in between.
—
The library’s annual book sale was coming up, and Clara had spent the past week organizing donations. She was in the back room, sorting through boxes of novels and textbooks, when she heard the door swing open.
“You’re working late,” Jace said, his voice low. He leaned against the doorway, his guitar case resting at his feet.
Clara glanced up. “It’s not late.”
“It is for me.” He stepped closer, his eyes scanning the room. “What’s all this?”
“The book sale. We’re clearing out the old stock.” She gestured to the boxes. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Jace crouched beside her, picking up a copy of “The Great Gatsby.” “This one’s got a note in the margin,” he said, flipping through the pages. “‘Never let anyone tell you you’re not enough.’” He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Who wrote that?”
Clara hesitated. “I don’t know. Some kid, maybe. Or someone who needed to hear it.”
Jace handed her the book, his fingers brushing hers. “That’s a good message.”
She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t. Instead, she turned back to the boxes, her heart hammering in her chest.
“You ever think about leaving?” Jace asked, his voice quiet. “Like, really leaving? Not just for a weekend or a tour, but… somewhere else.”
Clara frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Just… living somewhere that’s not just a stop on the way to something else.” He shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t like traveling. It’s just… I feel like I’m always running from something.”
She studied him, the way his shoulders were tense, as if he’d already made up his mind about whatever came next. “What are you running from?”
Jace didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Me.”
The silence between them was thick, but Clara didn’t break it. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the rest of the story.
—
The book sale was a success, but Clara couldn’t shake the weight of Jace’s words. That evening, as she locked up the library, she found him waiting by the front door, his guitar case open on the floor.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ve got a gig in Portland. A real one, not just a bar.”
Clara’s breath caught. She wanted to ask why, or where he’d be after that, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she nodded. “That’s good.”
Jace finally met her gaze, his eyes searching hers. “You could come with me.”
The offer hung in the air, heavy and impossible. Clara wanted to say yes, but the thought of leaving everything behind—her job, her routine, the quiet life she’d built—was terrifying.
“I can’t,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I have too much here.”
Jace’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted. “I know,” he said. “I just… I needed to say it.”
He picked up his guitar case, and for a moment, Clara thought he’d walk away without another word. But instead, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers. “You’re not like anyone I’ve met before.”
She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.
As he turned to leave, she called out, “Will you come back?”
Jace paused, his back to her. “I don’t know if I can.”
The door swung shut behind him, and Clara stood there, the weight of his words settling in her chest. She didn’t know if she’d ever see him again, but for the first time in a long while, she felt something stir inside her—something that felt like hope.
—
Months passed, and the library returned to its usual rhythm. Clara continued her work, her days filled with the familiar hum of books and quiet conversations. But somewhere in the back of her mind, Jace’s voice lingered, a quiet echo she couldn’t quite shake.
Then, one evening, as she was closing up, the door jingled again.
She looked up, expecting another patron, but instead, she saw him—Jace, his guitar case slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly longer than before.
“I’m back,” he said, his smile tentative.
Clara’s heart skipped a beat. “You came back.”
Jace stepped closer, his eyes scanning her face. “I thought about you every day. I tried to stay away, but… I couldn’t.”
She wanted to ask why, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing his.
“I don’t know what this is,” Jace said, his voice low. “But I don’t want to leave again.”
Clara looked into his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something shift inside her. “Then don’t,” she said softly.
And as the door swung shut behind him, she knew, whatever came next, it would be worth it.
