Adanna Okoye had a gift for losing things. Pens, earrings, entire sandals
once, even her own phone in the fridge. But the thing she lost today wasn't a lipstick or lecture notes. It was worse.
Her manuscript.
The little brown notebook she carried everywhere, the one stuffed with messy handwriting, clumsy dialogue, and the beginnings of the story she swore would one day change her life. A story no one else was supposed to see.
She remembered sliding it into her tote bag before heading to the university library. She remembered tugging out her laptop and a stack of borrowed books. But she couldn't remember tucking the notebook back in.
Her pulse thumped.
The library wasn't just any place. It was the old wing, the part nobody visited unless they needed dusty manuscripts or wanted to nap in peace. And it was watched over by one man Chike Nwosu, the archivist.
Ada groaned. Just her luck.
---
Chike noticed her the way one notices a mosquito, buzzing, insistent, impossible to ignore.
He was repairing a frayed binding when the girl burst in again, smelling faintly of rain and impatience. She always came like that too fast, too loud, hair half-unraveled, eyes darting everywhere but the books she claimed she needed.
"Excuse me," she said breathlessly, dropping her bag onto a wooden table. "Did anyone find a notebook? Small, brown cover, very important"
Chike adjusted his glasses, unimpressed. "This is an archive, not a lost-and-found."
"It's not just any notebook," she pressed, leaning over his desk. "It has… it has research."
Her voice cracked at the end, and for a second, he almost believed her. But research? This girl? She had once returned a philosophy text with coffee stains shaped like the map of Africa.
Still, something in her eyes desperation, maybe made him sigh. He reached under the desk and pulled out the notebook he'd found that morning among the donated piles.
"This one?"
She snatched it before he could blink. Relief softened her shoulders, but then she froze as if remembering something. "Wait… you didn't read it, did you?"
Chike raised an eyebrow. "Why would I waste my time?"
But the truth burned hot behind his calm face. He had read a page. Then another. Then another. And for the first time in years, he hadn't wanted to stop.
Words that shouldn't have mattered passionate, clumsy, alive had gripped him harder than the carefully bound manuscripts he preserved daily. He hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected her.
"Good," Ada muttered, clutching the notebook to her chest. "Because it's private."
She spun away, but Chike found himself speaking before reason could stop him.
"You should be careful," he said quietly.
She turned back, frowning. "Careful of what?"
"Of losing things that might be worth more than you think."
For a moment, the library air thickened. Dust swirled in the sunlight, and the silence carried something like a promise.
Then Ada rolled her eyes. "You sound like a proverb, Mr. Archivist. Next time, just hand me my stuff without the lecture."
Chike said nothing, only watched as she hurried out. But when the door shut, he allowed himself one small, guilty smile.
Because he already knew: he wanted to read more.
Much more.