But as the sound of rain started to swell in my ears, my shoulders began to relax.
Notebook? Check.
Pencil? Check.
Timer? Forty-minute sprint. Let’s go.
I closed my eyes, counted to twenty, then dove in. I wrote, deleted, cursed. Rewrote, threw notes and clawed my way through revisions until my bladder was ready to mutiny and the growl in my stomach couldn’t be ignored.
The snacks I’d hidden in the dresser were demolished. I stretched my arms, blinking at the dark window. The classy clock on the bookshelf read 12:07 a.m.
How?
I shook my head, eyes blurry. I had to continue but?—
I’d hit a wall. My story just... stopped.
King once said,Go find your muse.
Lew Elliot’s muse was probably haunting these halls. I pictured him now— fuzzy slippers, tartan robe, sipping scotch by the fire.
Sleep was an option. But let’s be real—if there was ever a time to stalk the halls of my literary idol, it was now.
The moonlight streamed through the ceiling windows, casting a ghostly glow. I eased open my door and crept into the hall.
First stop: the massive bookshelf lining the downstairs hallway. I swept my phone flashlight over the spines. Fantasy. Sci-fi. A wall of literary legends I’d trade my left kidney to own. Gorgeous leather-bound editions. Even a signed first edition ofThe Lord of the Rings.
That book alone could’ve paid off Mom’s mortgage.
Dad would’ve lost his damn mind over this collection.
One in particular caught my attention. An acid green abomination.Earth’s Core,John’s book. But when I pulled it offthe shelf, I noticed the spine wasn’t cracked and the pages were pristine. Judging by the worn condition of the other books, Elliot didn’t usually treat his novels with such care.
I know I’m petty, okay? But the idea of John Kater’s smug face lighting up at seeing his book on a much superior writer’s shelf annoyed the hell out of me. I slipped it under my arm and turned toward the cozy-looking living room.
Dying embers glowed in the fireplace. A half-empty wine glass with a lipstick stain stood forgotten on the solid oak coffee table. Next to it, an empty whiskey tumbler. Pillows were squished, blankets draped lazily over the furniture.
Looks like I missed a party.
It should’ve bugged me. But it didn’t. I knew the feeling well—being on the outside looking in. Like graduation night, when I stayed home to take care of Mom, because the absence of Dad was bigger than any pride she might have felt for me.
I wandered around the room, testing out different chairs, squishing my behind into the cushions as if trying to find a place that belonged to me. It was eerily quiet in the woods. Middleton was small, sure, but never silent. This quiet felt…loud. Overwhelming almost.
Wherever my or Elliot’s muse was, he/she/they weren’t here. I walked back, noticing an outline of a picture that must have recently been removed. Probably something too personal.
I grabbed a leather-bound copy of Elliot’s final book from the shelf and headed toward my room, hoping for some margin notes, when?—
The door next to mine creaked open.
I froze.
Moonlight spilled over broad shoulders. Shadows cut across a sharp jawline. His shirt pulled taut across his chest. John looked as if he'd been caught breaking a rule. But only for a moment. When his dark eyes focused on me, he raised a brow.
“H… hi,” I stammered. Because saying nothing would’ve been worse. After, you know, the staring.
“Hey.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. His eyes flicked over my face. Then he leaned back against his closed door, hands slipping into his pockets, like he was settling in for a conversation.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I blurted, “Nice chat. Good night.” And reached for my doorknob.
