Page 115 of The Story Between Us

“I guess so. She brought it to me and asked if we could finish Emma’s project. I thought—” Hazel paused. “I thought you were working on it together.”

His hands shook. He set the coffee cup down on the bench before he spilled it. “Can I see it? The Storybook Corner?”

“Of course. I was heading there now—I have the key. Come.”

The library was quiet.

That particular library silence that felt like held breath. Creaking wood floors. The smell of old paper and lemon polish. Dust motes floating in the light from tall windows.

Hazel led him through the stacks, past the children’s section, to the back corner. The area that had been roped off for three years, ever since Emma had gotten too sick to finish what she’d started.

The rope was gone now.

And the Storybook Corner was finished.

He stopped in the doorway. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The mural covered two entire walls.

A forest from the Thornwood books—ancient trees with faces in the bark, a path winding into golden light, creatures half hidden in the underbrush. Jeweled colors filled the space—emerald moss, amber sunlight, the silver-blue of twilight shadows. Every detail was perfect, the way Emma had described it, the way he’d written it, the way they’d imagined it together on summer afternoons when she was too weak to leave her bed and they’d built worlds with words instead.

In one corner, barely visible unless you knew to look, was a girl with a book in her lap, sitting under a willow tree. She had Emma’s smile.

His throat filled.

The reading nook was built into a carved tree trunk—actual wood, sanded and shaped until it looked like something that had grown there instead of being built. Cushions inside, soft and inviting. A child could curl up in there and disappear into a story.

Child-sized chairs shaped like woodland creatures—a fox, an owl, a rabbit. Each one hand painted with details that matched the mural.

Bookshelves along the walls, carved to look like castle battlements. Full of picture books now, their spines bright with color.

And in the corner, on a small easel, a sign: The Emma Rivers Storybook Corner—Dedicated at the Flannel Festival Closing Ceremony.

It was perfect.

It was everything Emma had wanted.

And Livvie had done this without telling him.

“How did she do this?” His voice didn’t sound like his own.

“She used Emma’s ideas,” Hazel said, her tone gentle and proud. “The notebook had sketches, color notes, everything. Wes Donovan, who just arrived back in town, did the woodwork—the reading nook, the chairs, the bookshelves. Livvie painted the mural herself, working from Emma’s drawings. She’s been here every morning, before she went to help you with the book.”

Every morning. Before she brought him coffee and doughnuts. Before she read his chapters and asked her probing questions. She’d been here, working with his sister’s notebook, finishing his sister’s dream.

Without telling him.

He moved into the space. Touched the mural. Ran his hand along the carved tree trunk, the smooth wood still smelling of sawdust. Looked at the sign with Emma’s name.

The anger came slowly, then all at once.

She had stolen Emma’s notebook. The one with all his sister’s notes on romance arcs, on story structure, on everything Emma understood about hearts and hope. The one he’d been looking for, desperate to finish the story.

And all this time…Livvie had watched him search. Had lied to him while he fell in love with her.

“I have to go.”

“Nate—”