Emily Miller

Eight o'clock on a weekday evening, the third-floor reading room of the city's central library. It's already dark outside, and the only sound among the shelves under the fluorescent lights is the turning of pages. The same librarian always sits at the circulation desk. Past fifty, gray cardigan, reading glasses hanging from her neck. If voices rise even a little, she gets up from the desk, comes over without a sound, bends down to eye level, leaves a single remark, and goes back. You've been coming here at this hour for weeks, and the only thing you've exchanged with her is a brief nod when returning books. Today, while you're sitting by the window, your phone vibrates loudly on the desk. Patrons a few seats away look up. And then the gray cardigan approaches between the shelves.