In the quiet town of Elmbrook, nestled between soft, rolling hills and the whispering arms of cypress trees, there existed a library unlike any other. It was not built of grand stone or gilded marble, but of warm timber and glass panes that welcomed the gentle caress of sunlight. The Elmbrook Literary Exchange, they called it—a sanctuary for readers and writers who shared their hearts on parchment pages bound in ribbon and sealed in mahogany drawers.
Here, stories were not simply read—they were exchanged, passed from hand to hand, with notes etched in the margins, bound in satin folders, and reviewed on soft vellum sheets pinned delicately to the "Reader's Board." These handwritten musings were known simply as reflections, left anonymously under pseudonyms, reviewed and admired by those who cherished words.
And here, within the ink-splashed corridors of this sacred house of stories, the name "A.R. Loway" had become something of legend.
Calloway's serialized novella, The House of Wintering Souls, had stirred emotions among the young hearts of Elmbrook. It was a tale of sorrow and silence, of a haunted violinist and the girl who brought him spring again. Each chapter was added to the Exchange fortnightly, stitched by hand into a leatherbound book that sat on the far-left shelf beneath a sign that read Ongoing Works—Hearts in Progress.
But for two months, the shelf remained untouched.
No new chapter.
No new words.
Only an empty ribbon mark where the author's pages used to be.
That was until this morning.
He had returned.
Aurelius Rowan Calloway. Known simply to those who admired his craft as "A.R." The son of the late Mrs. Calloway, a violinist and painter, he was known for his quiet brilliance and even quieter demeanor. Only seventeen, yet he wrote with the grief of a soul who had lived through three wars. Few people knew why he had vanished, but rumors fluttered through the town like petals on wind: sickness, perhaps. Or heartbreak.
The truth, he would share only in passing.
He stepped out of the carriage and into the golden light of September, dressed not in grandeur but in thoughtful concealment. His long charcoal coat bore no crest or embellishment, and a black wool scarf was drawn snug around his throat, concealing more than warmth. The fabric of his trousers whispered of quality, but they were muted, practical. A low-crowned hat shaded his eyes—eyes that scanned every figure, every window, with the caution of a man who'd been watched too closely once before.
He was thinner than before—frail, though not fragile. His coat sagged at the shoulders, and the planes of his face seemed newly carved, cheeks hollowed gently beneath the cheekbones. He walked like someone remembering how to walk—measured, soft-footed, almost reverent. Though weariness clung to him, a kind of calm radiated still beneath it. The kind that comes not from strength, but from surviving.
By noon, he had made his quiet way back into the Exchange, trailing fingers along the oaken desk, brushing dust from the glass cabinet where his stories had once lived. The Head Librarian, Madame Winslow, greeted him with a motherly embrace.
"You gave us quite the worry, Aurelius."
"I was away for a while," he said softly, glancing toward the reflection board.
When he reached the far end of the library, beyond the rows of dust-heavy volumes and under the quiet arches of stained glass, he paused before a wide velvet-draped board: The Reader's Wall.
A hush lived here—of ink and thought, of stories exchanged without names.
A new sheet of vellum was there—neatly folded and pinned beneath his last published chapter.
It read only this:
"I waited." – WildOrchid
Aurelius stared at the words for a long while, the corner of his mouth softening into something like a smile. WildOrchid. He had seen the name before, always signed beneath careful observations and poetic praise. Nearly every chapter he posted bore a note from them—an admirer who read not only with eyes but with soul. They understood the silences between his words, the tremors beneath them.
He took up a fresh quill, uncapped the inkwell, and wrote slowly:
He glanced over his shoulder once, twice. No footsteps. No eyes. He turned back and carefully unrolled the parchment he had brought with him, written by lamplight the night before.
He dipped a quill into the library's inkwell, and in clean strokes, penned the words he had rehearsed again and again:
To those who waited… I have returned.The illness kept me, but it did not claim me.Thank you for the quiet, for the patience,for the words you left behind.I shall resume the tale next week.
He affixed the note to the board under the discreet signature he always used— A.R. Loway—and took a slow step back, heart knocking once against his ribs.
Just walk away.
They don't know who you are.
But then—just as he turned—the faint rustle of parchment stirred behind him.
His head snapped around.
Another note was already pinned beneath his.
Impossible. He had been alone.
He stepped closer, breath shallow.
The ink was fresh, still blooming faintly into the fibers of the paper.
You came back… You really came back.I'm glad you're alright.The story waited,but I think I missed the writer more. — WildOrchid
He stared, motionless.
Was someone here? Had they seen him?
A shiver passed through his chest—half thrill, half dread. His eyes swept the corners of the room. Empty.
But the words on the parchment burned.
And somewhere deep within him, a quiet fear took root beside something far softer—an ache, maybe. Or a beginning.
There was a pause inside him, long and still—like the breath before snowfall. And then he did something he rarely did—he reached for the seal beside the message drawer and stamped a crimson wax heart beside their message.
It was a gesture, simple and small.
But in the Exchange, it was a declaration.
The days moved on, and with them came the rustling of uniforms and satchels, as students began to return to Halebourne Academy. It was the beginning of the autumn term. The corridors buzzed with footsteps and chatter, ribboned hair and polished boots, and Aurelius walked quietly among them, clutching his journal beneath his arm.
He had always walked alone. He liked it that way.
"Calloway!" came the familiar shout from across the courtyard.
He turned just in time to be embraced by a taller boy with russet curls and sharp blue eyes—Elias Thorne, all broad grins and unapologetic energy.
"Good Lord, I thought you were going to become a ghost!" Elias exclaimed, slapping his back with enough force to rattle a bookshelf.
Aurelius winced with a smile. "I think I still am."
"You look it," added another, gentler voice. It was Philip, Elias's cousin—soft-spoken, kind-eyed, always with a pocketful of candies and novels he never finished.
The three boys made their way through the marble foyer, echoing with the sounds of returning scholars and autumn wind.
Just as Aurelius stepped toward the main stair, it happened.
A small figure darted past him in a blur of motion—barely more than a whisper of wool and sunlight. Her shoulder brushed his as she passed, and she did not turn.
Her hair—
Oh, her hair.
It was not gold, nor red, but some impossible blend of both—like the last burst of light before the sun sank beneath the hills. It danced behind her in wild, laughing waves as she hurried away, her skirt fluttering like the wing of a sparrow.
She didn't apologize.
She hadn't even noticed.
But he had.
Aurelius stopped in his tracks, his breath caught in some unseen string.
"Who…?" he murmured.
Elias followed his gaze. "Ah. That's one of the new transfers. I think her name's Des… or something longer, I don't know. She's in our year, but she's never on time. Always running off somewhere."
Aurelius said nothing. He only watched the stairwell where she vanished.
Des…
Something inside him ached with a strange curiosity.
That hair. That presence. That fleeting touch on the shoulder—it felt… like an echo of something he'd once written but never read.
It felt like a page turning.
That night, long after the halls of the academy fell silent and the moon stretched its arms across the cobbled roof tiles, Aurelius returned once more to the Exchange.
The lamp above his head flickered gently as he scanned the board.
They had replied again.
"You liked my message… I know it was just a stamp, but I feel like I've waited forever to be seen. I hope you're truly alright. I missed your voice in the silence. – WildOrchid"
He read it again.
And again.
And something inside him—something bruised but beating—felt warm for the first time in months.
He did not reply.
Not yet.
But he traced his fingers gently beneath the words, as though memorizing the rhythm of their thoughts.
It was a strange feeling—to fall for a stranger's soul.
In the quiet of his heart, he wondered if perhaps the stranger knew him more deeply than anyone else ever had.