Yesterday traced Iris’s quiet undoing—her name crossed out, a drawer left unlocked, her presence pared back to habit.
Not collapse. Not grief. A deliberate retreat.
Today, a shift: a moment of being seen.
Not enough to change course. Just enough to leave a mark.
The Interruption
Ezra waited longer than usual before speaking.
It was late—near closing. Rain tapped at the windows. Not hard. Just enough to soften the silence. The library smelled faintly of paper and damp wool.
He stepped to the desk. Held a paperback in his hands, worn at the spine. A torn corner folded back.
“I’ve been finding traces of someone,” he said. “I think it’s you.”
Iris looked up, then down again. Her hand hovered near the stamp pad.
She didn’t answer. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Just paused.
Ezra didn’t shift his weight.
“Why keep looking?” she said
She closed the book in front of her. Not abrupt. Just finished with the page.
“Because someone who leaves things like that must care,” he said. “Even if they’re disappearing.”
She nodded once, though it could have meant anything.
That night, she walked the shoreline. The tide was coming in—not fast, but sure. The sky held its color too long. She stopped near the driftwood pile, where salt had bleached the grain to near-bone. In a hollow, she left a ring of keys. Not thrown. Just placed.
Her hand brushed the sand. A fine dust clung to her fingers. She wiped them on her coat. Then stood until the water reached the rocks—but didn’t touch her shoes.
Later, at home, she opened a stack of books she’d long since withdrawn. Not to reread. Just to mark.
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.
Inside the back cover, she wrote in the same pencil she used for the ledger:
We leave fingerprints. Even when we try not to.
She didn’t sign it.
She left the book on Ezra’s usual table the next morning—tucked spine-in, as if forgotten.
The Quiet Exit
The library opened on a Tuesday. The windows still held the last of the morning rain.
Ezra arrived early, as he often did. The peace lily on the desk had bloomed overnight—white and tilted slightly toward the light.
Iris wasn’t there.
Her chair was pulled in. No note. No forwarding information.
Mail had arrived, though. One envelope, thick stock. The postmark was dated weeks prior. Inside: her resignation letter. It was unsigned.
Ezra didn’t ask anyone about it. He slid the envelope into the staff drawer. It stuck halfway, then gave with a low click.
Later that afternoon, he found a copy of The Selected Works of W.S. Merwin on the withdrawn shelf. It hadn’t been logged. The spine was uncreased. A card pocket still inside.
One line underlined:
Your absence has gone through me / Like thread through a needle.
Below it, in ledger pencil:
The pattern is mine.
He ran a thumb over the page. Closed the book. Carried it to the front desk.
Sat in her chair for the first time. Not long. Just enough to watch the street through rain-softened glass. To notice how the light pooled.
On the counter: a checkout card. The name faintly erased.
Not gone—just smudged to graphite.
He left it there.
Missed Part 1?
I'm looking forward to the continuation! ❤️❤️