Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning dawned gray and cool. Cora swung by the library before her shift at Cuppa Joe. She still had part of the morning free and wanted to be useful—shelve a few books, sort papers, whatever Adelaide needed done.
“Good morning,” she called out as she pushed open the heavy door.
The front desk was empty, the teapot gone. Adelaide was nowhere to be seen.
Cora wasn’t entirely surprised. Adelaide had the uncanny habit of appearing and disappearing like someone half a beat out of sync with time. Still, Cora set her tote near the counter and scanned the room.
If Adelaide trusted her to start on her own, she would.
A rolling cart stood near the west window, stacked with returned books. Cora rolled up her sleeves and began reshelving, falling into the familiar rhythm of it—the quiet scrape of bindings, the whispers of pages, the small, satisfying order of putting things where they belonged.
When the last book was in place, she moved toward the long table near the back, where a few file boxes waited. The top one was marked Archives—Local History.
She brushed dust from the lid and opened it. Inside were newsletters, typed minutes and event programs from decades past. She began stacking them by date, careful not to tear the thin pages.
Someone, long ago, had tucked an old newspaper behind one volume, its edges crinkled and yellowed with age. When she lifted it free, something else slid forward—a thin manila folder, its corner curling.
Curiosity tugged, and she flipped it open.
Inside were more brittle newsletters labeled in fading ink: “GraceTown Carnegie Staff Notes—1952-1957.” A photograph was clipped to the top page.
Cora blinked.
A young woman stood beside the library’s circulation desk, dark hair pinned neatly, a faint smile curving her mouth. The name written in looping cursive beneath the black-and-white image read:
Lenora Summerbell—Librarian
Cora’s breath caught.
The resemblance wasn’t exact, but close enough to send a ripple down her spine. The same eyes. The same set to her chin. It felt like looking at a memory that didn’t belong to her, but somehow did.
She traced the edge of the photo with a fingertip. “You worked here,” she whispered, her voice sounding too loud in the still room.
A draft stirred the curtains. Papers fluttered on the desk, whispering faintly, like an answer just out of reach.
“Finding what you need?”
Cora startled and turned. Adelaide stood in the doorway of the reading room, sunlight haloing her silver hair. Cora hadn’t heard a door open, hadn’t heard footsteps—just her voice, calm and lilting.
“I…” Cora hesitated, pulse still racing. “I found something unexpected. A photograph.”
Adelaide’s gaze drifted to the table and the photo in the open folder. “Ah,” she said softly. “Lenora. She was a beauty. And so smart.”
Cora swallowed. “We spoke about her before. I asked if you knew her, but I didn’t get a clear answer.”
A small smile curved Adelaide’s lips. “Most memories linger for a reason.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Despite her growing impatience, she kept her voice even, polite. “Did you know her or not?”
Adelaide glanced toward the door. “You should get to work, dear. Dodger doesn’t strike me as a man who enjoys being kept waiting.”
Cora followed her gaze, saw nothing there, then turned back. “How do you know—”
The question died in her throat. Adelaide was gone.
The air had changed—quiet, charged, as if the room itself remembered what had just been said. The curtains moved, swaying gently as though someone had just passed by.
Cora looked down at the photograph again.
There was something in Lenora’s expression, something she hadn’t noticed at first glance. The look was quiet, knowing, as if she’d been expecting Cora all along.
The Friday lunch rush at Cuppa Joe was in full swing when Cora arrived. The air hummed with overlapping voices and the hiss of milk steamers. Before long, the smell of roasted coffee beans clung to everything—her clothes, her hair, the inside of her wrist where a splash of mocha had landed earlier.
Cora kept her focus on the counter, working through the steady rhythm of orders. If she stayed busy enough, maybe she could stop thinking about Lenora’s face.
It wasn’t working.
Between customers, she caught snippets of conversation from the prep area. Shelby and Wyatt, both part of the weekday crew, were laughing over something on Shelby’s phone.
“I can’t believe you actually signed up for the doughnut-eating contest,” Shelby said, shaking her head.
“Tradition,” Wyatt said, puffing out his chest. “Every year since high school.”
“Just make sure you don’t puke in front of the mayor again,” Dodger called from the back, and the group burst into laughter.
Cora smiled faintly, pretending to wipe down the counter. The Fall Festival again. It seemed like that was all anyone talked about—booths, contests, fireworks, cider.
Everyone already had plans.
She glanced toward Raelyn, who was refilling napkin dispensers near the condiment bar. The girl had been working here longer than anyone except Dodger. Petite, quiet, with a crown of dark curls pulled into a loose bun, she always seemed a little separate from the chatter.
Cora hesitated, then crossed over to her. “Hey,” she said softly. “Are you going to the festival this weekend?”
Raelyn looked up, startled, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to talk to her. “Oh. Um, yeah, for a bit.”
Cora nodded. “I was thinking of going, too, but…” She laughed lightly, self-conscious. “It’s not as fun solo, right?”
For a heartbeat, Raelyn looked sympathetic. Then she smiled, small and apologetic. “I’d ask you to come with me, but I already promised to help my cousin run the pie booth. It’ll be chaos.”
“Oh.” Cora’s fingers tightened around the rag she was holding. “No worries. I totally get it.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there, though,” Raelyn added kindly before returning to her task.
Cora nodded again, though Raelyn’s back was already turned.
The bell above the door jingled as another wave of customers came in. Cora turned back to the counter, sliding into the rhythm she knew—pour, steam, smile.
Outside the window, the first strands of festival bunting fluttered in the breeze, bright and cheerful against the gray of the afternoon.
For everyone else, the upcoming weekend seemed to promise connection—bonfires and laughter and belonging. For her, it was starting to feel like one more reminder of everything she didn’t have.
By the time Cora’s shift ended, the sun had dipped low behind the rooftops, painting the streets in shades of honey and shadow. The air smelled faintly of rain and roasted nuts from the vendor across the square.
She should have gone home. Made something simple for dinner. Called it a night.
Instead, her feet carried her toward the library.
The town felt different after dark—quieter, softer. Porch lights blinked on one by one as she walked past, and somewhere down the block, music drifted from an open window.
When she reached the steps of the Carnegie Library, she hesitated. The building loomed pale in the streetlight glow, its arched windows reflecting slivers of gold.
“I’m just going to say hello to Adelaide, see if she needs any help,” she murmured. “Maybe even sort out hours and pay.” Saying it aloud made it sound almost sensible, like she wasn’t the kind of person who wandered into libraries after hours.
The front door creaked open under her hand.
Inside, the library was hushed. Lamps glowed dimly in the reading room, though when she glanced in, the room was empty.
“Adelaide?” she called out. As she did, a sudden drift of lilac filled the air.
Cora paused, frowning. The scent was unmistakable—lush and familiar—but only a bouquet of asters sat on the desk, and the windows were shut.
Curious, she followed the scent trail up one stack and down another, the fragrance teasing her senses but always just out of reach.
She was about to give up when she heard it.
“Cora.”
Just her name, spoken softly. Not eerie. Gentle. The way someone might call to you from another room in your own home.
She turned, scanning the quiet aisles. No one.
“Cora.”
This time, it came from deeper within the building. She moved toward the sound, following it until she reached the corridor leading to what Adelaide had called the Possibility Wing.
Unlike before, the velvet rope no longer blocked the way and—at the very end of the hall—the door with the brass handle stood ajar. Light spilled out in a golden hush, pooling like a welcome mat.
Cora hesitated, her breath suspended between reason and wonder.
Adelaide had never said any part of the library was off-limits. Only that some open themselves when the time is right.
It appeared that the time to explore this area was finally right.
And really, what harm could there be in just…looking?
Maybe it was the quiet.
Maybe it was the scent of lilacs.
Maybe it was the way her name had been spoken like an invitation.
Whatever it was, it nudged something inside her, something curious and tender and brave.
She took a slow breath, then stepped forward, the light drawing her in.
The door creaked softly as she pushed it open. Warm lamplight spilled across hardwood floors, illuminating a room that felt out of time.
The walls were lined with shelves, but not the usual kind.
These were filled with books bound in worn leather and faded cloth, many with no titles on the spines.
Some were stacked in odd little towers, as if left in midthought.
Others lay open on desks, pages fluttering slightly, though there was no breeze.
In the center of the room, a wing chair sat beside a small round table. A half-full porcelain teacup rested there, as if someone had just stepped away.
Cora moved slowly, reverently, her gaze taking in every detail. This didn’t feel like any public space.
It felt personal. Intimate.
She paused near a worn wooden shelf etched with a brass label:
Summerbell, Cora. The GraceTown Variations: Volumes I, II, III
Her pulse jumped. The section looked ordinary—just a row of aged bindings—except for one detail.
Her name.
Her breath caught.
Three volumes rested there, but only the second stood out clearly, the dark leather gleaming faintly beneath the dust, the words Volume II impressed along the spine in soft gold. The words on the others were fainter, their markings blurred, as if still forming—or waiting.
She reached out, hesitating just before her fingers brushed the cover. The leather was smooth and warm, humming faintly under her touch. Maybe Adelaide had shelved it here after cataloging old family records. Maybe these were genealogical records.
Or maybe they were something else entirely.
The volume slid forward at the lightest touch, as though nudged by a quiet current of air, and settled neatly into her hands.
Cora’s heartbeat quickened as she set it gently on the table.
It fell open. Across the title page, in looping gold script, was her own name—elegant and precise, as if written by a careful hand long ago.
Cora Summerbell: If She Returned.
She stared at the words.
Returned?
She had returned to GraceTown just recently. But what would a forgotten book in a locked room know about that? A chill curled through her, unease, anticipation, something in between.
The air around her seemed to tighten, the silence deepening until she could hear the rhythm of her own breathing.
She drew a steadying breath. “All right,” she whispered. “Let’s see what you want to show me.”
Her fingertips brushed the page.
The print shimmered.
The air shifted.
The stillness thickened.
The room blurred.
And the world tilted—
Wide windows spilled late-morning light across rows of narrow desks in the lecture hall. The faint scratch of pencils mingled with the soft clack of laptop keys, underscored by the uneven hum of a radiator that couldn’t decide if it wanted to work.
Cora sat high and near the back, notebook open, pen poised—though she hadn’t written a word.
She’d been at Collister College for only a week, still finding her way through hallways that smelled faintly of varnish and coffee. Her roommate was kind but distracted, spending most of her time with her boyfriend. Cora didn’t mind. She told herself she’d make friends soon.
Still, as she glanced at the empty seats around her, something in her chest pinched. Maybe she should have sat farther down, closer to the laughter and easy conversation. But her next class was across campus, and she hated being slowed down behind the crowd.
The door opened.
A few late arrivals slipped in, heading for open seats farther down. Then…
“Mind if I sit here?”
Cora turned.
He stood beside her, tall and lean, his expression open but serious, the kind of face that seemed to notice more than it revealed.
There was a steadiness about him, a quiet calm that reached her before his words did.
And when their eyes met, she saw it—a spark, small but undeniable, lighting the deep brown of his eyes.
She didn’t look away.
Neither did he.
It wasn’t like in movies, where everything slowed down. It was subtler than that, a pause, a recognition, as if her heart had just remembered something it had been missing.
A soft current stirred inside her, steady and sure. Despite her vow to play it cool, a smile rose to her lips before she could stop it. “I don’t see anyone else sitting there.”
The corners of his mouth lifted, the seriousness in his eyes easing into something gentler. He set his backpack on the floor, slid into the seat beside her and extended his hand. “I’m Aaron.”
“Cora.”
Their palms met, and a quiet charge moved through her, threading up her arm and settling behind her ribs.
Not static, but connection.
She’d never met Aaron before. And yet, somehow, she knew that this man was meant to be in her life.
His gaze held hers, steady, searching, and she could see the same recognition flicker in his eyes.
The world softened around them, sound and motion falling away until it was just her and him and a connection that left her breathless.
“Cora.”
Adelaide’s voice snapped her back like a pulled thread.
Cora gasped softly, the dream fading in layers. It took her a few seconds to reorient herself, to remember where she really was.
“I…I’m sorry,” she stammered, rising on unsteady legs. Her voice felt thin, not quite tethered to the moment. “I got caught up.”
Adelaide stepped forward, closed the book gently and slid it from her hands. “This will have to wait for another time.”
Cora nearly protested, but the words caught in her throat as Adelaide returned the volume to its place on the shelf with quiet finality.
The clock on the same shelf read the same time as when she’d entered the Possibility Wing.
Another time, she told herself, following Adelaide out of the room.
Another time…soon.