Rory woke to the sound of gentle rain tapping on the roof like a soft applause from the sky. Morning in Everspring always felt slower, like the town itself had learned the art of patience. The air was damp with promise, and the mist outside blurred the world into something half-dreamed.
She stretched, blinked at the light filtering through the curtains, and felt something strange fluttering in her chest not anxiety this time. Something quieter. Braver. Hope, maybe.
She poured herself tea, sat at the desk, and opened her email.
Then her stomach dropped.
Subject: Feature Opportunity The Firelight Review Wants You
From: Lena Harmon, Literary Agent
Hi Rory,
We've just been contacted by The Firelight Review. They want to do a full feature on you and your latest work. It's a big deal. National exposure. I need your response within 24 hours. They also asked for a personal interview ideally something on video. Let's talk soon.
Rory stared at the screen.
Her tea went cold.
She read the message three more times before shutting the laptop and standing up too quickly, knocking the chair slightly off balance.
Video interview.
National exposure.
Suddenly her skin didn't feel like it belonged to her anymore. She paced, her thoughts spinning like loose pages in the wind.
This was what she was supposed to want. Right?
Recognition. Readers. Success.
But all she could think about was her words being misread. Her pauses misunderstood. The way her voice always trembled when she was nervous. The way people made assumptions when they saw her instead of reading her.
By mid-afternoon, she found herself standing outside The Golden Spine, journal pressed to her chest like armor.
Inside, she found Ethan tucked in his usual chair, rain-streaked window beside him, notebook open, pen dancing.
He looked up the moment she entered, and his expression softened.
"You okay?" he asked, before she said a word.
She nodded. Then hesitated. Then shook her head.
"No," she admitted quietly. "I'm... overwhelmed."
He closed his notebook without asking. "Want to talk?"
"Yes," she whispered. "But I don't know where to start."
"Then let's not talk yet," Ethan said. "Come on."
He stood, offered his hand, and led her upstairs to the bookstore's attic reading room a place rarely used, filled with dusty poetry collections and forgotten hardcovers stacked like bricks in a fortress.
They sat on the floor between two shelves.
Outside, the rain deepened.
Inside, silence filled the space with something warmer than words.
When Rory finally spoke, her voice was low.
"They want to interview me. For something... big. National." She fiddled with the hem of her sweater. "It's everything I should want. But all I feel is... dread."
Ethan nodded. "I know that feeling."
"You do?"
He looked away for a beat, jaw tightening slightly.
"I had a book signing once," he said. "The biggest I'd ever had. Dozens of people lined up. Flashbulbs. Praise. Everyone smiling. But I felt like I was standing on a stage naked, and everyone was clapping without actually seeing me."
Rory blinked. "Exactly."
Ethan met her eyes. "Fame's just a louder version of silence. It doesn't see you. It sees the version of you people like best."
They sat with that for a long time.
Then Ethan pulled a folded piece of paper from his notebook.
"I wrote something last night," he said. "Didn't plan to share it. But maybe you need it more than I need to hide it."
He handed it to her.
Rory unfolded it and read:
Everyone loves the poet,
Until they hear the tremble in his voice.
Until they see his hands shake.
Until they learn he doesn't write from wisdom
But from wounds that never healed.
They love the fire.
But not the burn it came from.
Rory felt her throat tighten.
"You wrote this for me," she said.
"No," Ethan replied. "I wrote it because I am you."
The rain began to slow.
Outside, the sky lightened, and golden beams broke through scattered clouds.
Rory glanced at Ethan, her voice soft. "How do you always know what to say?"
He smiled. "I don't. I just know what I wish someone had said to me."
They left the attic, hearts a little less heavy.
Downstairs, Miss Alva handed Rory a wrapped package.
"This arrived for you this morning," she said, raising a curious brow. "No return address."
Rory opened it slowly.
Inside was a rare, out-of-print poetry collection: Letters from the Quiet Ones a book she'd once mentioned in passing during a writing forum comment thread. Her breath caught.
On the first page, a handwritten message:
"For when your voice trembles, let these voices carry you.
E.B."
She looked up, stunned.
Ethan had already turned to leave, the bell above the door chiming softly behind him.
Rory clutched the book to her chest, her heart pounding.
He saw her. Really saw her.
And she was terrified.
Because the more someone sees you, the more they hold the power to leave.
That night, Rory sat in the dark of her cottage, candlelight flickering over her journal.
She wrote, not because she had to but because the words were aching to come out.
Maybe love doesn't come like lightning.
Maybe it comes like ink.
Slow, staining, impossible to erase.
And maybe I'm finally ready to be read.