Page 8 of Firefly Nights

She takes it from me, running her fingers over the cover like she's greeting an old friend. "It's about a woman who builds a library in the Australian outback. About bringing stories to people who need them." Her voice softens. "About how books can be a light in the darkness."

"Like your library here?"

"This is different. In the book, everything works out perfectly. The roof doesn't leak, the budget stretches exactly far enough, and—" She stops, blushing. "Sorry. I'm doing it again, aren't I? Getting lost in stories."

"Hey." I touch her wrist lightly, waiting until she meets my eyes. "Getting lost isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes it's the only way to find something unexpected."

"Is that your professional contractor opinion?"

"Nah, that's just me appreciating a good story when I see one." I gesture to the library around us. "And this place? Your dedication to it? That's a pretty good story."

She ducks her head, but not before I catch her smile. "We should finish shelving these."

"Whatever you say, Book Whisperer." I reach for another volume. "But while we work, tell me more about this Australian library builder. I want to know if she had to deal with stubborn contractors too."

"You're in my spot."

Grace doesn't startle this time when she hears my voice. Just shifts over slightly on the blanket she's spread in our stargazing meadow.

"Wasn't aware you had a deed to this particular patch of grass," she says, but there's warmth in her voice as she makes room for me.

I settle beside her, close enough to catch the familiar scent of old books and lavender. "Squatter's rights. Been watching the stars from here every clear night for weeks."

"Following their stories?"

"Something like that." I lean back on my elbows, studying the familiar patterns above us. "Though I usually track them by coordinates rather than myths."

"Of course you do." She turns her head to look at me. "Ever wish you didn't know exactly where everything was? That you could just get lost in the wonder of it?"

"Got lost enough as a kid." The words slip out before I can catch them. "Moving every few months, never knowing where we'd end up next. Navigation became a survival skill."

Grace's quiet for a moment. "Is that why you like fixing things? Because it's concrete?"

"Maybe." I watch a satellite track across the sky. "Dad was good with his hands. The man could fix almost anything. But he got restless easy. One job would end, or he'd hear about better opportunities somewhere else, and we'd pack up again. The only constant was that something always needed fixing wherever we landed."

"That must have been hard."

"It was what it was." I shrug, but something in her voice makes me continue. "But yeah, I guess that's why I prefer things I can touch. Build. Improve. The satisfaction of solving a real problem, you know?"

"Like a leaky roof?"

"Like a leaky roof." I turn to face her. "What about you? What made books your safe place?"

She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. When she does, her voice is barely above a whisper. "My mom left when I was seven. Walked out one day. No explanation, no goodbye. Gran took me in, but I—" She takes a shaky breath. "I had trouble trusting that anything would stay. That anyone would stay. But books always ended the same way. The stories never changed, never left. I could count on them."

Without thinking, I reach for her hand in the darkness. She lets me take it.

"The library was my favorite place. During the summer, Gran would drop me off on her way to work, pick me up hours later. The librarian let me help shelve books, and taught me the catalog system. It made sense in a way nothing else did."

"And now you're making sure other kids have that same safe place."

She turns her head sharply. "I thought you said I was hiding in fiction."

"Maybe I'm learning to see different kinds of strength." I squeeze her hand gently. "Different ways of facing the world."

Above us, a shooting star streaks across the sky. Grace catches her breath.

"Quick," I say, "make a wish."

---