The next morning, Emma went back to the library. The sun was just waking up, and the air felt soft and cool. She held her little notebook close to her chest like it was a treasure. Her eyes looked tired because she had not slept much at all. All night long, her mind had been busy. She kept thinking about Jack's letters. She kept thinking about the way he wrote—so full of love, so full of pain. She kept thinking about Clara too, and how quiet Clara's side was, like a song with missing notes.
Emma felt like the story was not just theirs anymore. It was pulling her inside. It was wrapping around her heart like a warm but heavy blanket. She wanted to know more. She needed to know more.
The big doors of the library opened with a creak. Emma walked inside slowly, her shoes tapping softly on the floor. The place smelled the same—dust, paper, and something old, like a memory. She walked to the tall shelves where the art books lived. The shelves stood in rows like big giants guarding their secrets.
Emma stopped, closed her eyes for a moment, and whispered, "Please, give me something today." Her voice was soft, almost like a prayer.
She let her hand drift along the books. The spines felt bumpy under her fingers. They were lined up straight, tired and waiting, like toy soldiers who had stood too long. Then her hand stopped. The book she touched was big and old. Its name was Artists of Our Town.
The cover looked worn and faded, like it had been hugged by many hands. The corners were bent and soft. Emma pulled it out and hugged it to her chest for a second. Something inside told her this one mattered. She opened the pages carefully.
She flipped through names and pictures. Page after page showed faces, paint, and words. Then her eyes froze. Her heart gave a jump. The name was right there: Jack Thompson.
Emma leaned close. Her heart began to beat faster, almost too fast. She looked at the pages. They were full of Jack's art—bright sunsets dripping with color, faces painted with deep feelings, places that looked so alive you could almost step inside them.
Emma whispered, "Wow. He was so, so good."
Her finger touched one picture—a painting of the town's park at dusk. The colors glowed like melted glass. They looked alive, like they could move if she blinked too long.
Then Emma's breath caught. She saw Clara. A photo, black and white, but bright in its own way. Clara stood next to Jack at one of his art shows. She was smiling, soft and glowing, like she carried light in her. Emma leaned closer, her lips parting.
Clara was not just a shadow in Jack's letters. She was here. She had stood beside him. She was part of his work.
Emma's chest felt tight, like someone was pressing gently on it. She saw it now—Jack and Clara were not just lovers. They were more. They were partners. They made things together. They built dreams side by side.
Emma knew she needed more than a list of shows. She needed their voices. She needed pieces of them that were still alive somewhere, even if only on paper.
She tucked the book under her arm and hurried to the front desk. "Do you have anything else on Jack Thompson?" she asked, her voice a little shaky. "Like old newspapers? Records? Anything close to when he disappeared?"
The librarian peered over her glasses. Her face was thoughtful. "We keep old clippings in the back room," she said. "There may be something there."
Emma's heart leapt. "Could I see them?"
"Of course," the librarian said.
Soon, Emma sat at a wooden table. Old yellow papers were spread out before her. They were thin, dry, and cracked a little when she touched them. She leaned over, careful not to tear them. Then she saw it. A headline that made her gasp: Tragedy Strikes: Artist Jack Thompson and His Muse Clara Vanish.
Emma's eyes grew wide. She read as fast as she could. The paper told about Jack and Clara. It said they were so close, maybe too close. One friend had said, "They were never apart." But then, one night—they were gone.
Emma's eyes burned. Tears stung, but she kept reading. There were stories of storms, of rumors, of paths lost in the dark. There were questions no one ever answered. Emma put her palm flat on the paper and whispered, "Why didn't anyone find out?"
Her chest burned. She could not leave it like this. She had to know more. She had to follow the trail.
Then—footsteps. A soft creak. Emma lifted her head.
"Uh, sorry," a man's voice said. "Do you know where the bathroom is?"
Emma turned—and froze.
A man stood near the shelves. He had messy dark hair, like he had just run his hand through it. His eyes were blue and bright, even in the dim library light. He smiled, kind and easy. Emma felt her throat go tight.
"It's… down the hall, left," she managed to say. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to stare too much. Their eyes held each other longer than she meant them to.
"Thanks," he said. His smile was warm, like sunlight. "I'm Ryan, by the way."
Emma's stomach flipped. "Ryan? I'm Emma."
"Yeah," he said softly. "I know. We met at that networking thing, right?" He leaned a little closer, looking at the papers on her table. "What are you working on?"
Emma quickly closed her notebook. "Oh, um… just research. On Jack Thompson. And Clara."
The air seemed to grow heavy. Ryan's smile faded. His face grew serious. He rubbed the back of his neck, then said slowly, "Thompson… he was my dad."
Emma stared. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it. "Your… your dad?" she whispered.
Ryan nodded. His eyes were steady but sad. "Most people forget him. But I don't." His gaze moved to the stack of old clippings.
Emma leaned closer, almost without thinking. "I just started learning about him. And Clara. Their story is so beautiful. And so sad."
Ryan's jaw tightened. His voice was rough at the edges. "I've wondered my whole life what really happened. There are missing pieces. Nobody wants to talk about it."
Emma's heart ached for him. She felt his weight, the heavy shadow he carried. "I want to find out too," she said softly. "Maybe… maybe we could work together?"
Ryan's eyes lit up, just a little, like a spark in the dark. "I'd like that," he said. "My mom told me some things. Pieces you won't find in books."
They exchanged numbers. Their fingers brushed for a moment, and Emma felt a spark shoot through her hand. It was small but strong, like a little fire.
"Let's meet again soon," Ryan said. His voice was quiet, but charged with something new.
"Yes," Emma whispered. Her heart tumbled inside her chest.