Chapter 4 #2
Again, that notable pause before his reply.
“It is complex. The design must be both functional and intricate. Each passageway must connect properly while maintaining structural integrity.”
Still vague, still impersonal. Yet something about the way he described it—the emphasis on complexity and intricacy—sparked my imagination.
“Sounds like you’re building a labyrinth,” I joked.
The response took so long I’d packed up the tools and was ready to leave before it came:
“Similar in some aspects.”
I stared at my phone, a strange shiver running down my spine. There was something about that answer—so careful, so measured, yet revealing more than perhaps he intended.
Who builds something “similar” to a labyrinth? An escape room designer? A maze architect for one of those corn fields? A video game level designer?
Or maybe I was reading too much into a simple text exchange, projecting mystery and intrigue onto what was probably a mundane construction project.
The next morning, I arrived at the library early, eager to test my newly reinforced ladder. I set it up carefully beside the mythology section, took a deep breath, and began to climb.
The difference was immediately noticeable. Where before the ladder had wobbled alarmingly with each step, now it felt solid, reliable. The cross-bracing held firm, distributing my weight evenly across the structure.
I reached the second-highest rung—the point where I’d usually start feeling like I was taking my life in my hands—and found myself still feeling secure. Emboldened, I climbed to the very top, stretching to arrange the mythological creatures display on the highest shelf.
“Norse gods on the left, Greek in the center, Eastern deities on the right,” I murmured to myself, carefully positioning each book. “Dragons get their own section because they’re cross-cultural and also because dragons.”
The ladder held steady throughout my arranging and rearranging. No ominous creaking, no heart-stopping wobbles. Just solid, dependable support.
When I finally climbed down, having completed the top shelf of the display, I felt a rush of gratitude towards my mysterious text correspondent. I pulled out my phone and typed:
“It worked! The ladder feels completely different—stable and secure. I just shelved the entire Norse pantheon without fearing for my life once. Thank you, Rion.”
His reply came as I was setting up the circulation desk:
“Good. The repair is temporary. You will still need a permanent solution.”
Always practical, always focused on the problem at hand. Yet I couldn’t help but feel there was a note of satisfaction in his response—or perhaps I was just projecting, wanting him to share in my small victory.
“I know,” I replied. “But this buys me time to figure out a long-term plan. My boss might actually approve a new ladder if I can show him detailed safety concerns with proper terminology, which I’ve now learned from you.”
I hesitated, then added: “I feel like I owe you a coffee or something for all your help.”
The suggestion hung there, a tentative bridge extended across the digital divide between us. An invitation, however casual, to move this strange relationship from text messages to real life.
The reply, when it finally came, was characteristically terse:
“Unnecessary.”
Just that. One word that effectively closed the door I’d cautiously opened.
I felt a twinge of disappointment, followed by curiosity. Why the reluctance? Most people would at least offer a polite excuse—too busy, maybe another time, etc. But Rion’s response contained no social cushioning, no attempt to soften the refusal.
“Well, the offer stands if you ever change your mind,” I wrote back, trying to keep my tone light. “In the meantime, I’m genuinely grateful for your help.”
Throughout the day, between helping patrons and continuing work on the mythology display, I found myself returning to that exchange, turning it over in my mind. There was something about Rion’s avoidance of personal details, his reluctance to meet, that nagged at me.
Was he just intensely private? Socially anxious? Or was there something else—something he was deliberately concealing?
“You’re overthinking this,” I muttered to myself as I shelved a returned copy of “The Iliad.” “He’s probably just a busy guy who doesn’t want to get roped into fixing a stranger’s ladder problems in person.”
Yet the sense of otherness persisted—that feeling that there was something unusual about Rion, something that set him apart from ordinary text conversations.
“So how’s your mystery builder?” Brenda asked as we restocked the new releases section that afternoon. “Still dispensing wisdom about structural integrity?”
I nodded, sliding a bestselling thriller into place. “The ladder fix worked perfectly. I was able to retrieve the entire top row of the mythology display this morning.”
“Marvelous,” Brenda said. “And have you met this paragon of construction knowledge in person yet?”
I shook my head. “I suggested coffee as a thank-you, but he declined.”
“Hmm,” Brenda hummed, her expression thoughtful. “Interesting.”
“What’s interesting about it? He’s probably just busy.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, though her tone suggested she thought otherwise. “Or perhaps there’s another reason he’s keeping your relationship digital.”
I rolled my eyes. “There is no ‘relationship.’ He’s just being kind to a stranger with ladder problems.”
“If you say so, dear,” Brenda replied, her eyes twinkling with that mischievous look I knew all too well. “But in my experience, men don’t spend days texting detailed construction advice to women they have no interest in.”
“Your experience includes a lot of men texting construction advice, does it?” I countered, feeling my cheeks warm.
Brenda laughed. “Touché. But my point stands—there’s something there. Maybe he’s shy. Or maybe…” She trailed off, that gleam in her eye intensifying.
“Maybe what?” I prompted, already regretting the question.
“Maybe he has something to hide,” she said dramatically. “Something he doesn’t want you to see.”
I thought of Rion’s terse messages, his reluctance to offer personal details, his vague descriptions of his mysterious “project.”
“Like what?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me despite my determination to be rational.
Brenda leaned in conspiratorially. “Remember my monster theory?”
I groaned. “Not this again.”
“Just consider the evidence,” she insisted. “He’s building something he describes as similar to a labyrinth. He got defensive when you mentioned ‘bullheaded.’ He communicates in a strangely formal way, like someone who learned English from books. And he refuses to meet in person.”
“That’s not evidence of anything except possibly social awkwardness,” I protested.
“Or,” Brenda countered, “he’s hiding horns. Or scales. Or tentacles. Or all of the above.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve been spending too much time in the fantasy section.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded with a smile. “But you have to admit, it would make for a much more interesting story than ‘socially awkward handyman helps librarian fix ladder.’”
I shook my head, amused despite myself. “I think I’ll stick with the more plausible explanation, thanks.”
But as we finished the restocking and moved on to other tasks, I found Brenda’s ridiculous theory lingering in my mind. Not because I believed it—of course Rion wasn’t a monster—but because it highlighted the strange sense of mystery that surrounded him.
Who was he, really? And why did I care so much?