Page 53 of The Story Between Us

“Four books. That’s what we got. Four books, and then she got sick again, and then she was gone.”

The words hung in the air. He could feel Livvie looking at him, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. Not yet.

“She never got to finish it,” he said. “The fifth book. Our story. She had the whole arc in her head—beginning, middle, end—and she was going to tell me, she kept saying she was going to tell me, that there was always more time. Until there wasn’t.”

Silence. The lake lapping at the shore. The dogs breathing at their feet.

“You can finish it, Nate.”

He turned to look at her. She was watching him steadily, no pity in her expression.

“It’s your story too,” she said. “It always was. The world is yours. The words are yours. Yes, Emma gave you the spark, but you’ve been carrying the fire for three years. So finish it.”

He stared at her. “But⁠—”

“Stop trying to listen for Emma’s voice and listen for your own.”

Something cracked open in his chest.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just write it.”

And suddenly, words. In his head. Not Emma’s words—his words. The next line of the story. Something that didn’t come from her notebooks or their old conversations.

The wall didn’t just contain something ancient. The wall WAS something ancient. Alive. Waiting. Looming.

“I have an idea,” he said.

Livvie blinked. “What?”

“For the next part. The scene at the wall.” He turned to her. “Aldric doesn’t make a deal with what’s behind the barrier. He makes a deal with the barrier itself. The wall is alive. It’s been alive this whole time, and no one knew⁠—”

“Then go write it down.”

He looked at her, startled. “What?”

“Go.” She pointed toward the house, visible now through the trees. “Write. Before you lose it.”

He stared at her.

She smiled at him, and just like that, for a second, possibility exploded inside him, a heat, a light and⁠—

And in his head, he leaned forward and kissed her, took his moment instead of walking away. In his head, he tucked that strand of hair behind her ear, ran his hand over her jaw and around the back of her neck and pulled her to himself.

And let his heart free.

But, “Really—go, Nate.” She got up.

Oh.

He stood too, and then he was striding up the path, then jogging, the dogs scrambling to keep up, the idea burning in his head like something that might disappear if he didn’t capture it fast enough.

He didn’t look behind him as he took the path home.

And by the time he got there, the scene had fleshed out in his head.

He shut the door, shucked off his coat, left it on the floor, sat down at his desk.

And wrote.