The next morning, Emma woke up slow. Her cheeks felt a little sore. She had smiled too much last night. Ryan's silly stories still echoed in her head. He had made the office sound like a comic book. He had given everyone funny voices, like bad guys and heroes. Emma had laughed so much her tummy hurt.
When she went to bed, she had fallen asleep fast. No worries, no tossing, no heavy thoughts. Just soft dreams. Her body had rested deep, like a stone at the bottom of a calm pond.
Now she stretched wide in bed, arms over her head, toes curling. Sunlight slipped through the curtain and painted soft stripes on the floor. She sat up, hair messy, but her smile still warm.
She hummed a happy tune as she padded into the kitchen. The tiles felt cool under her bare feet. She cracked eggs into a pan, the yolks breaking bright and golden. The butter sizzled and popped. The smell of breakfast filled the small room. She moved slow, humming as she cooked.
But her eyes kept wandering. They kept sliding toward the corner of the room. The old desk sat there, heavy and still. Its dark wood gleamed in the sun. It looked quiet, but Emma felt it was waiting. Watching.
She chewed her eggs and stared. The desk tugged at her heart, like a puzzle missing a piece. She remembered the first letter. She remembered Clara. She remembered the way her hands had shaken as she read.
She set her fork down. She stood.
Still barefoot, she tiptoed across the room. Her coffee mug steamed in her hand. She ran her fingers over the wood. The desk was rough in some places, smooth in others. She traced a dent, like a scar in the wood.
"What else are you hiding?" she whispered.
She tugged at the drawer. It creaked, groaned, then slid open.
At first she sighed. Only scraps. Only an old notepad, yellow and thin. But then—something. A small slip of paper, peeking from the very back.
Emma gasped.
Her heart thudded. Her hands shook. She reached in and pulled it free.
It was another letter. The paper felt so thin, like leaves in autumn. She held it gently, afraid it might tear. The ink was faint and soft, fading at the folds.
Emma sat down quick, her knees bending hard into the chair. She set her mug aside and opened the letter.
The words curled across the page, messy but full of life.
My dearest Clara…
Emma's breath caught.
This one was not gentle like the first. Not sweet and calm. This one was heavy, burning, like a cry in the night.
She read slow.
As I sit here in the dark, I think of your light. You are the sun that warms me. You are the spark that saves me.
Emma pressed her hand to her chest. Her eyes stung.
More lines came.
Each day without you is too long. I miss your laugh. I miss your tiny dance in the kitchen. I miss your eyes when you dream of tomorrow.
Emma's eyes blurred. She blinked hard, but the tears came anyway. She could see them—Jack and Clara. She could hear the wooden floor creak as they danced. She could hear Clara laugh. She could almost smell paint on Jack's shirt.
Why were they apart? Why had they been pulled away?
The words felt alive. Alive, but hurting.
The last line came strong:
I promise to fight for our love. Always. Against all things.
Emma closed her eyes. The ache was sharp and deep. She folded the paper slow. Her palms tingled, as if the letter carried fire.
She stood. She paced. Her bare feet tapped the wooden floor, back and forth. Her heart beat hard. Jack's cry clung to her ribs.
She thought of Ryan. His texts. His jokes. His soft eyes. How he saw her—not as a worker, not as someone to beat. Just as Emma.
She whispered to herself, "What if I said it out loud?"
Her voice shook, but her chest felt strong.
She grabbed a notebook. She sat at the desk again. She held her pen to her lips.
Her hand trembled, but she began.
Dear Ryan.
The words spilled.
She wrote about his laugh, how it filled a room. She wrote about his smile, how it softened her day. She wrote about the spark she felt when he was near.
She stopped. She chewed the pen. Her hand almost tore the page. But then she pressed harder. She wrote more.
She wrote that she liked him. She wrote that she wanted more than just small talks and little jokes.
Her hand shook when she signed it. The note was small, but it felt like a piece of her heart.
She folded it carefully. She smoothed the crease with her thumb. She held it close, like holding her own courage.
She looked at Jack's letter.
"If he could be brave," she whispered, "so can I."
Emma tucked her note into her bag. She placed Clara's letters inside too. Then she grabbed her coat and stepped outside.
The morning air was cool, fresh on her cheeks. She walked fast. Her heart buzzed with purpose.
The library waited. She needed answers.
The old stone library stood between a flower shop and a coffee shop. The flowers spilled color onto the street. The smell of coffee drifted out the door. But Emma hardly looked.
She pushed open the heavy door. The air inside was quiet. The smell of old paper wrapped around her.
She went straight to the Local History shelves. She pulled books, one by one. Dust rose. Pages crinkled. She flipped fast. Her eyes searched for Clara. For Jack.
And then—she froze.
A headline stared back at her.
Mysterious Disappearance of Local Artist Jack Thompson.
Emma's lips parted. Her breath caught.
She read every word. Jack had been bright. His art had filled galleries. The town had praised him. Then one night—he was gone.
Just gone.
The article spoke in whispers. Scandal. Rumors. Silence. Clara's name was there, but only once. Like a shadow.
Emma's hands shook as she wrote notes. Her pen scratched the page fast.
Her eyes burned.
"This is them," she whispered. "It has to be."
She shut the book with a thump. She held it against her chest. Her lips pressed to the cover.
"I'll find you," she said. She didn't know if she meant Jack, or Clara, or even her own brave self.
When she stepped outside, the world looked brighter. The flower shop burst with color. The café buzzed with voices. The sunlight poured down like gold.
But Emma hardly noticed.
Her arms were full of papers and notes. Her bag carried Jack's cry, Clara's silence, and her own folded note for Ryan.
Her steps were light. Her chest felt heavy and full at once.
The world had secrets. She was holding some of them now.
And she was ready to follow where they led.