Page 3 of Firefly Nights

She startles, nearly dropping the book. A flush spreads across her cheeks, bringing out the light spray of freckles I definitely haven't been noticing all morning.

"I was just..." She pushes a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "It's important to maintain proper categorization."

"Right. Wouldn't want to offend the other books." I tap my pencil against the clipboard. "Though I gotta say, your filing system's almost as complicated as this roof structure. And that's saying something."

Grace straightens, chin lifting. "There's a logic to it."

"Oh, I believe you." I climb down the ladder, unable to resist the urge to get a closer look at that indignant expression. "Same way there's logic to how I know this building was constructed in sections. See these joints here?" I point to where the original architecture meets a later addition. "Someone wanted more space but tried to maintain the original style. Didn't quite get it right, though. That's where most of your leaks are coming from."

"How can you tell all that just by looking?"

"Same way you can probably tell the difference between"—I squint at the book in her hands—"Virgil and whatever passes for epic poetry these days. You learn to read the signs."

She studies me for a moment, head tilted. "Is that what you do? Read buildings?"

"Buildings, broken things, people who think they're hiding behind books." The words slip out before I can catch them.

"I don't hide behind books."

"No?" I step closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in her green eyes. "So what were you doing this morning when you spent fifteen minutes staring at the same page of—what was it?Pride and Prejudice?"

Her eyes widen. "You saw that?"

"Hard to miss. You were smiling at it like it was telling you secrets."

"Maybe it was." But there's a defensive note in her voice that makes me want to push just a little further.

"See, that's what I don't get." I lean against a nearby shelf, careful not to disturb its precise order. "You spend so much time in these fictional worlds when the real one's right here. Look—" I gesture to the window, where late morning sun streams through the stained glass, painting patterns across the floor. "That's not something you'll find in any book."

Grace follows my gaze, and for a moment, something shifts in her expression. Like she's seeing it—really seeing it—for the first time. Then she blinks, and the walls come back up.

"The real world isn't always as reliable as books," she says quietly. "Stories stay where you put them. They don't..." She trails off, hugging Virgil closer to her chest.

"Don't what? Surprise you? Disappoint you? Change?" I resist the urge to reach out, to brush back that stubborn strand of hair that's escaped again. "Seems to me that's exactly what makes them worth exploring."

A crash from the children's section saves her from having to answer. We both turn toward the sound of giggling and a small voice saying, "It wasn't me!"

"That'll be the Tuesday crafts crowd," Grace sighs. "I should..."

"Go. Be librarian-y. Make sure no glue sticks were harmed in whatever just happened." I gesture to my ladder. "I'll be here, reading your building's story. Trying to figure out how to give it a happy ending."

She pauses halfway across the room, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read. "And what if it doesn't want to be fixed?"

"Everything wants to be fixed, Grace." I tap the wall beside me, feeling the solid bones beneath the surface. "Some things just need a little more patience than others."

She shakes her head, but I catch the hint of a smile as she disappears around the corner. I turn back to my assessment, adding another note about the window frames that need restoration. And if I'm smiling too, well, that's just professional satisfaction in a job that needs doing.

Dusk settles over Juniper Falls in layers of violet and indigo, the kind of evening that makes you understand why people put down roots in small towns. I should be heading back to my rental, reviewing material costs, or at least grabbing dinner. Instead, I find myself walking toward the meadow behind the library, drawn by the quiet and the way the tall grass ripples in the evening breeze.

Something about this place gets under your skin. Maybe it's the mountain air, or the way everyone knows your coffee order by day three, or?—

A familiar figure stands at the edge of the meadow, silhouetted against the deepening purple sky. Grace. She's traded her work cardigan for a soft-looking sweater, her hair falling loose around her shoulders instead of pinned back in its usual neat arrangement. She hasn't noticed me yet, too absorbed in whatever she's watching in the gathering shadows.

I'm about to call out when the first firefly blinks to life near her shoulder. Her quiet gasp carries across the evening air.

More lights flicker on, scattered through the meadow like stars falling to earth. Grace turns slowly, following their dance, and the expression on her face. It's like watching someone step into their favorite story.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

---