The snow was finally letting go of its hold. Frosted flowers pushed through thin ice, rivers ran free again, and the air carried the soft, damp smell of thaw. No more wading knee-deep through drifts. No more shivering until her teeth ached.
"Now the bonfire's going to be easier to light," she murmured without thinking, then felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment as her own words echoed back at her.
She'd been talking to herself again. Her legs ached from the run, but she hadn't hit her milestone yet. So she pushed her headphones back into place and kept going, the steady swoosh of her ponytail brushing her back.
Once the snow had started melting, she'd made these morning runs a habit. They left her tired enough actually to sleep before work, and something was calming about the rhythm of her feet on thawing ground.
By the time she reached a small stream, her breath was ragged. She slowed to a walk, then sat cross-legged on the bank. Melted snow had fed the river, the water so clear she could see the stones resting on its bed. Tiny flowers, bold enough to bloom this early, spread in soft clusters where the frost had receded.
That was what she loved most about Kuin. The water was clear. The sky was blue. And the people… they were kind. Not just polite, but genuinely warm, especially once word spread about the whole blood thing. Here, she had friends. Because Finn's place was packed and she couldn't bear going back to her old room, Ezra offered her one at his house. Living there was strange. Sometimes loneliness pressed on her in the quiet halls, and when they crossed paths, her chest tightened, painful with longing she refused to name.
"Crazy," she muttered to herself, shaking her head as if she could rattle the thought loose.
She stood, brushed off the damp from her leggings, and started back toward the house.
By the time she reached the house, her pulse had settled, but the heat in her skin lingered. She kicked off her shoes in the entry, hoping to slip upstairs unnoticed.
"Morning," Ezra's voice called from the kitchen.
She froze mid-step. He wasn't supposed to be here, not this early. Usually, he was gone before she woke, having relocated his office to the main house, which left it quiet enough for her to pretend she lived alone.
He was leaning against the counter, a mug in one hand, papers spread out on the surface in front of him. The faint scent of cedar and smoke clung to him.
"You were out running," he stated.
She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah."
His gaze flicked down to her flushed face, her damp hair, then back to her eyes. "You're pushing yourself too hard."
She bristled before she could stop herself. "It's just running, Ezra. Not exactly dangerous."
He sipped from his mug, watching her, his brown eyes fixed on her as the beat of her heart quickened.
"Breakfast's on the stove," he said finally. "Eat before you go to work."
She hesitated in the doorway, the smell of coffee and eggs curling toward her. Each step toward the kitchen was weighted with the mixed comfort and ache of Ezra's quiet care. It would've been simpler if he barked orders. But the gentle concern in his voice made her heart squeeze in confusion and tenderness.
"Thanks," she murmured, slipping past him toward the food. His gaze followed her; she could feel it between her shoulder blades until she turned the corner.
"And you?" she asked Ezra without looking back.
"Not hungry."
"Oh."
He took another slow sip from his mug, eyes unreadable, then set it down and walked away. She was left with the silence, the steam curling up from her plate, and her thoughts closing in like a tide.
****
Summer thought of all the things she had to do today. Some new books were arriving from the port. There were linens to take to the laundry, some books to review, and a dozen little tasks she'd promised herself she wouldn't forget this time. She had to rearrange the coffee room again under Lysara's request, though she didn't mind. Summer liked Ezra's mother. Lysara was calm, warm, and full of laughter, and she carried a cup of tea everywhere she went.
Ezra had her face, just in a more contained way. Avery, though, when Summer had seen a picture of her, was almost Lysara's mirror: same smile, same brightness in the eyes, only with their father's dark hair spilling down her back.
Working for Lysara felt almost like working for her own mother. Soft-spoken most of the time, but when she needed to be loud, she was. People listened. Islanders didn't just respect her, they moved out of her way. Some even dipped their heads when she passed.
Summer knelt by the low shelf, sorting through a stack of novels that had been pushed aside for "better reads." One in particular caught her eye, The Storm of the Wolf.
"That's a beautiful love story."
She straightened slowly, careful not to topple the pile in her arms. "Oh... Mrs. Kuin."
"Oh, stop it, dear. You've been working for me for over three weeks, and you still call me that? I told you, call me Lysara," Lysara said with a playful smile.
"Yes, yes," Summer said with a small smile.
Lysara held out her hand, and Summer passed her the book.
"I was obsessed with this when it first came out," Lysara said, brushing the cover fondly.
"I'm not big on supernatural romance books," Summer admitted, glancing at the cover.
"Why not?"
"I believe in reality… and the universe of it. I enjoy stories grounded in reality. Fiction's fine—I think the best kind of book is one you can imagine happening outside your own door."
"But what is reality, really?" Lysara's voice had that airy, knowing lilt. "We all come from somewhere and nowhere. And we all want our little Twilight moments, falling in love with the beauty of what we don't know. Personally, I was an Edward girl." She winked.
Summer laughed, cheeks warming. "I was a Jacob."
"Well, isn't that just so us girls," Lysara teased as her laughter trailed off and she wandered down the aisle.
Summer watched her go, her fingertips resting on the spine of The Storm of the Wolf. A dull pang of envy moved through her—she wished she could glide through rooms with Lysara's ease, unburdened by nerves and doubts that seemed to catch on every action.
Sliding the book back into place, Summer let her fingertips trace over the other worn covers before moving closer to the window. Her reflection wavered in the glass, half her face caught in sunlight, the other in shadow. A figure passed outside, just a flash of movement too quick for her to catch any details. She blinked and leaned closer to the glass, but the street was empty except for a few distant people.
A shiver prickled up her arms. The library door was closed, yet she could swear the air had changed, growing fainter and colder. Shaking off the feeling, she turned back to the stack of novels waiting to be shelved.
Her gaze snagged on a thin brown envelope tucked between two books. She picked it up. There was no stamp, no address, just her name scrawled in a tight, familiar hand.
She glanced toward the hallway Lysara had disappeared down. The library was silent. This was the third letter since the blood incident, and like the others, it hadn't come through the mail. The first she had found tucked inside her bag after visiting a coffee shop. The second had been slipped into the dashboard of her car.
Summer glanced over her shoulder and slid a finger under the flap. Inside were photographs. Her photographs.
From this morning. Running at the stream's edge, her hair loose, head tilted, breath caught in the frame. She flipped through them with careful fingers, even though her pulse was anything but. The last one made her stop. It was closer than the others, a tight shot on her face, eyes half-closed from the run, mouth parted. On the back, in small, almost delicate handwriting:
You always slow down at the river. Why?
She set the photos down and ran to the front of the library, but the street was empty.