Page 40 of The Silence Between

Eleanor never wasted time on preamble. “I'm cutting back my hours. Doctor's orders and Arthur's insistence.” She named her husband of forty-five years with familiar exasperation. “Arthritis is making inventory days a special kind of hell.”

I nodded, unsure where this was heading.

“I need someone to manage the place three days a week. Someone who knows books, who customers trust, who won't try to 'modernize' me out of business with computerized inventory systems and social media campaigns.”

It took me a moment to realize she was describing me, not explaining someone she'd already hired.

“You're offering me a job?”

“Part-time management. Better pay than that diner, more consistent hours than your handyman work, and considerably less disgusting than whatever you clean at the high school.” She sipped her coffee, watching me process this unexpected possibility. “You'd still need another part-time job for financial stability, but not three of them.”

My practical mind raced ahead to obstacles—I'd need to keep at least one additional job, the schedule would require rearranging Diego's therapy appointments, and I'd need to find someone reliable to watch Sophie after school. Yet beneath these considerations ran a current of unexpected possibility—work connected to my love of literature, mental rather than physical labor, potential stepping stone toward eventually resuming education.

“I don't know what to say,” I admitted finally.

“Yes would work,” Eleanor suggested with a small smile. “But think about it. Take a few days.”

I nodded, still trying to process what this opportunity might mean. Fewer hours at physically demanding jobs, slightly better pay, more consistent schedule. Small improvements that felt monumental after years of barely keeping my head above water.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Eleanor added, her casual tone immediately setting off my internal alarms. “I heard from Marcus Jenkins that Riverton High is hiring a new English teacher. Someone returning to town after making quite a name for himself as a writer.”

“I know, Tasha told me about it.” I said.

“Apparently he's written several successful novels. Quite the literary celebrity, by Riverton standards.” Eleanor watched me over her coffee cup. “Small world, isn't it?”

“I should get going,” I said, gathering my things. “Next job starts at two.”

“Think about my offer,” she called as I headed for the door. “Books have always been good to you, Leo. Maybe it's time you came back to them.”

* * *

The rain fell softlyaround me as I sat on the fire escape at three in the morning, unable to sleep after my night shift. Through the window behind me, I could hear the quiet breathing of my siblings—Diego and Sophie sharing the bedroom, Mari on the pull-out couch in the living room. The familiar sounds had always anchored me, reminded me why every sacrifice was necessary.

Tonight, they couldn't drown out the noise in my head.

The semicolon tattoo on my wrist seemed to pulse in the dim light, drawing me back to the night three years ago when I'd reached my breaking point. I rarely allowed myself to remember that darkness, but tonight, with everything shifting, the memory surfaced with brutal clarity.

Now, three years later, I traced the faded tattoo with my finger, rain mingling with unexpected tears.

For ten years, I'd carefully suppressed my own wants and needs, viewing them as luxuries I couldn't afford. What would happen if I allowed myself to want things again? To imagine a future beyond endless responsibility?

Below me, The Hollows slumbered in predawn stillness, indifferent to my internal turmoil. Inside, my family slept, unaware that the careful balance of our lives stood on the precipice of change.

I remained on the fire escape until the first hint of sunrise colored the horizon, the semicolon on my wrist a constant reminder that even the most difficult sentences eventually continue.

9

RETURN TO RIVERTON

ETHAN

The conference room of my publisher's Manhattan office gleamed with polished surfaces and carefully arranged minimalism. Six marketing executives surrounded me, their presentations open on identical tablets, discussing my “brand trajectory” as if I were a household cleaner rather than a human being who wrote stories.

“The data indicates your reader base responds most strongly to the themes of fractured memory and unreliable narrators,” said Brendan, the marketing director, swiping through colorful graphs. “We've seen a twenty-eight percent higher engagement with these elements compared to your more experimental sections.”

I nodded mechanically, the way I'd been nodding for the past hour. For three books now, I'd been accepting these guided “creative directions,” watching my writing become an increasingly calculated product designed to maximize market share.

“For the fourth novel,” continued Amelia, head of digital strategy, “we're envisioning a natural extension ofThe Cartographer's Dreamwith the same narrative style but set in a coastal environment. Readers respond well to water imagery, and it would position well for summer release promotions.”

---