The Library on Linden Street
June 10, 2025
It started with a returned book.
Not just any book—Leaves of Grass, spine faded, corners bent, a name scribbled in neat, looping script on the inside cover: A. Marlowe.
Harper turned it over in her hands behind the front desk, frowning. The book had been checked out over seven years ago, long overdue and presumed lost. And yet, here it was—quietly placed in the returns bin on a rainy Thursday.
She flipped open the cover again. The note beneath the name read: “For whoever finds beauty in overlooked things.”
Charming. Pretentious. Definitely a reader.
“Is that still on file?” she muttered, tapping at the computer.
The name popped up: August Marlowe, last active in 2018. No email. No phone number. Just an address two blocks away.
Something tugged at her. Curiosity? Boredom? Fate?
She told herself it was just librarian duty as she grabbed her umbrella and the book, locking up fifteen minutes before closing.
The apartment was in an old building wrapped in ivy, the kind that smelled like worn wood and warm memories.
She knocked once.
Footsteps.
The door creaked open.
He looked almost exactly like she imagined: glasses pushed up into his messy hair, a cardigan too big for summer, and eyes that flicked between surprise and amusement.
“Yes?”
Harper lifted the book. “You returned this.”
August blinked. Then smiled. “Ah. I was wondering if someone would notice.”
“I did.”
“I figured.” He opened the door wider. “Do you want to come in? Or are you here to fine me?”
She hesitated. “There’s no fine. Just questions.”
He stepped aside.
Inside, the apartment was filled with books. Everywhere—stacked on chairs, lining shelves, scattered on tables.
“I moved away for a while,” he said. “Found the book in an old backpack last week. Thought I’d sneak it back in.”
“Sneak it in?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
He grinned. “Well, I didn’t want a lecture.”
Harper smiled despite herself. “You don’t seem like someone who runs from lectures.”
“I don’t. But I do hide from overdue responsibilities.”
She sat on the edge of an armchair, holding the book in her lap.
“Why write this in the front?” she asked, tapping the inscription.
August looked at it, his smile softening.
“I was nineteen. I thought I was the next Whitman.”
“You weren’t?”
“Absolutely not,” he laughed. “But I liked the idea of leaving pieces of myself behind.”
“You succeeded,” she said. “I found it… haunting.”
“Haunting?”
“In a good way.”
They sat in a comfortable silence, the rain ticking against the windows.
“You ever write?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” Harper said. “Mostly reviews. Essays. Librarian stuff.”
“You look like someone with a secret novel.”
She flushed. “Maybe.”
“I’d read it.”
“Maybe I’ll let you.”
He stood, walked to the kitchen, returned with two mugs of tea without asking.
“Chamomile,” he said.
“Do I look like someone who needs calming down?”
“No,” he said, “but I do.”
They clinked mugs.
“So,” he said, settling into the chair opposite her. “Tell me the real reason you came.”
Harper sipped her tea. “Curiosity.”
“About the book?”
“About the person behind it.”
August tilted his head. “And now that you’ve met him?”
“I think he might be more interesting than the inscription.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to disappear again.”
The words sat between them, quiet and honest.
She looked at him. “Then don’t.”
Over the next few weeks, Harper found herself on Linden Street more often. Sometimes to bring books. Sometimes just to talk.
They walked through the farmer’s market on Saturdays. He made her try spiced plums. She made him read Pride and Prejudice out loud in the park, complete with voices.
She told herself it was casual.
But every time he looked at her like she was a mystery he wanted to keep unraveling, something in her shifted.
One evening, as they sat on the fire escape watching the sunset, he turned to her.
“Do you think people find each other at the right time?” he asked.
“I think time’s a trick,” she said. “Sometimes we’re late. Sometimes early. But the right people notice anyway.”
He nodded slowly. “You noticed.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
A pause.
“Harper?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I wrote that note for you. Even back then.”
She looked at him. “You didn’t know me.”
“No,” he said, “but I knew I wanted someone like you to find it.”
She reached for his hand. “I’m glad I did.”
They spent the rest of the summer together. Not always in words. Sometimes just reading side by side, their feet tangled.
It wasn’t grand or explosive.
It was steady.
It was exactly what they needed.
One rainy morning, Harper came into work to find a note left on her desk.
“For whoever finds beauty in overlooked things—thank you for finding me.”
—A.M.
Inside the envelope was a new library card application.
She laughed, hugging the paper to her chest.
She didn’t need to ask what it meant.
Some stories didn’t begin at chapter one.
Some waited seven years to start.