Page 131 of The Story Between Us

Yeah, maybe not, given the ending. Still, he tried to smile. The expression sat wrong on his face, like wearing a pair of borrowed shoes.

Someone pressed a cup of hot cider into his hands. He wrapped his cold fingers around it. Didn’t drink.

The library stood as the centerpiece of the ceremony. Warm light spilled from the tall windows, and through the glass, the Storybook Corner glowed. The mural Livvie had painted—emerald forests and amber light and silver-blue shadows. The carved tree trunk reading nook Wes Donovan had built. The dedication sign with Emma’s name in gold lettering.

Beautiful. Everything Emma had dreamed of.

Hazel Brightman found him, her purple cardigan buttoned against the chill, her reading glasses fogging. Her eyes glistened behind the lenses. She squeezed his arm. “Mayor Gillson is about ready with the dedication.”

He gave her a nod. But he couldn’t help but scan the crowd as he headed toward the stage.

She wasn’t there.

She really wasn’t coming. Livvie was gone.

June Bellamy squeezed his arm as she passed, her white hair silver in the Edison glow. “Good to see you out, Nate.”

He drifted toward the edge of the crowd, away from the congratulations, and stopped pretending to celebrate.

The dedication speeches had begun. Mayor Gillson stood at the microphone on the library steps, his breath fogging as he spoke. He talked about Emma—her contribution to the community, her story hour, her vision for the Storybook Corner. How she’d started the project before she got sick the final time. How she’d been only twenty-four when she died, with so much left to give.

Through the library windows, the mural glowed. Livvie’s mural. The colors she’d mixed and applied with her own hands, morning after morning, before walking to his cottage to help him with the book. Emerald moss on ancient trees. Amber light filtering through painted leaves. The silver-blue of twilight shadows where magical creatures hid.

She’d done that. For Emma. For him.

And he’d pushed her away. Just like he’d pushed her away at the funeral. Just like he’d pulled back from the almost-kiss all those years ago.

The pattern emerged clear now. Every time she got close, he found a way to make her leave.

Oh. Wow.

“You don’t look happy.”

Lila appeared beside him—small, silver-haired, wrapped in a purple shawl that looked hand-knit. A worn paperback tucked under her arm. One of his books—The Thornwood Chronicles: Book One—the spine cracked white with reading.

“What are you doing with that?”

She glanced at the book. “Oh, I picked up a copy at the book sale.”

He tried a smile.

“Now that’s terrifying.”

He let the smile fall. Set the cold cider on a nearby windowsill. “I said some things. To Livvie. Things I shouldn’t have said.”

“I know.”

Of course she knew.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he said.

Lila stayed quiet. The mayor’s voice drifted over the crowd, talking about legacy and love and the way stories shape a community. A child laughed somewhere behind them. The fiddle shifted to something slower.

“Emma used to come over and paint with me. We’d talk story, and she’d say a story isn’t finished until the character finds the truth.” Lila’s eyes held kindness, knowing—eyes that had seen grief and loss and all the ways people break and mend. “But she always found it. Because she trusted that the Author of all stories kept writing.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Emma’s faith. The one he’d set down years ago and hadn’t known how to pick back up.

“But never fear.” Lila patted his arm. “God is at the helm. Even when we can’t see the next chapter.”