The dream that returned

Elizabeth woke up to birds chirping. Not the curated kind you hear in meditation apps or YouTube channels, but the raw, off-key chorus of seagulls, finches, and something that sounded like a squeaky door hinge trying to immitate harmony.

She sat up slowly, blinking sleep away from her eyes. Brushing tear crusts from the corner of her eyes.

The sheet of paper still sat on her coffee table. Yesterday's words sprawled neatly as it laid beneath the stone she'd pocketed from the beach years ago on the their harmony. Hers and Jeremy. A souvenir of some kind.

She hadn't meant to write more or write at all, but her fingers itched; a low, familiar restlessness and hunger. Not the desperate kind. The honest kind. One that gnaws at the very pit of your stomach. Like something was trying to return.

Her heart lurched at the height of her adrenaline. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was. But it hit with a bowling force. One that uproots from a stand.

Instead of fighting it, she gave in.

She brushed, splattered warm water over her face and pulled on her coat, tied her scarf with one loop instead of two, and walked into town again.

She hadn't meant to go back to the bookstore. But her feet didn't ask permission. It glided like a snake right into the store.

It was quieter today. A pale sun filtered through the front windows, catching dust in slanted beams. The bell above the door rang gently as she stepped inside. As it always does.

Her eyes scanned around. Like a hawk hoping for a meal.

The shop owner, a woman Elizabeth vaguely remembered as Mary from high school ,now silver-haired and round-spectacled, looked up from the register.

"Elizabeth Winston," she said. Not a question. Not even surprised. Just… knowing. "You're back."

Elizabeth gave a small nod with something that could pass as a half-smile on her face. "Just for a while."

Mary didn't press. Just gestured toward the back of the store. "Your section's still there. No one's ever quite let it go. The children keep asking why there are no new collections from you."

Elizabeth moved toward the children's corner. Her heart knocked once, then again, against her ribs. Thumpety thump thump, it went.

This used to be her favourite place. A safe heaven!

She bridged the gap between the adult section and children's section.

And there she was. Again. Lily.

Sitting cross-legged this time. Book open. Lips moving, silently.

When she saw Elizabeth, she didn't startle. She simply pulled something from her coat pocket and held it out — the note from yesterday. Folded. Worn at the corners. Rumply even.

Elizabeth crouched slowly. "You kept it," she whispered, even though she didn't expect an answer.

Lily nodded.

Elizabeth reached into her coat pocket this time. Pulled out another note, pre-written on thick, soft paper.

> "Some stories are only told between pages.

But some — the truest ones — are passed in silence.

You are that kind of story."

She handed it over.

Lily read it. Twice. Thrice.

Then reached for Elizabeth 's hand. Just for a second. Eyes locked in on her face. She squeezed it in appreciation.

And then the girl stood, and this time, went to sit at the small reading table near the window. Her favourite place and corner. She remained quiet, but no longer felt alone.

Michael's POV

Michael Hale stood across the street from the bookstore, hands in the pockets of his work jacket, watching through the front window as his seven years old daughter sat at the reading table.

He hadn't followed her inside. Lily liked the ritual of entering the shop alone, choosing a book, pretending she was just another child with a voice and a story she could speak aloud.

She'd stopped speaking three years ago.

The trauma from the kidnapping had left her traumatised. The therapists exhausted all knowledge, advanced and all, no therapy worked. No explanation seemed to give a diagnosis.

The police couldn't break the case. Lily's voice seemed to be the key. But nothing was heard. Just a silence that closed over her like fog. Tapered like her vocals were sewn shut.

He'd stopped trying to force sound out of her a long time ago after the arrests.Now he watched. And listened in other ways. Ways only a father could hear his child.

Today, something was different.

Luna wasn't alone at the table.

There was a woman seated nearby. Not too close. Not looming. Just... present.

Dark hair pulled into a low knot. A green scarf she'd tugged loosened around her neck.

Her coat seemed oversized and out of place. Her side profile silently portrayed the grace of Mona Lisa.

He watched them in astonishment as he bridged the road towards the building.

She was writing something on a small square of paper. Not speaking, just writing. Then sliding the note across the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Luna took it. Read. And smiled. Just faintly, but it was real. She wrote something too and slided it over to her. Like a dealer and her client exchanging fund and product.

Michael's breath caught; so brief it could've been mistaken for a shift in the wind.

He finally knew who the woman was, of course. Everyone in town did.

Elizabeth Winston. The author who left after tragedy. The one who used to read to children in the library with her soft voice and laughter that felt like a warm hand on your back.

She'd been gone for five years.

And now here she was. Not reading. Not laughing. But sitting in quiet stillness with his daughter like she understood something unspoken.

He didn't realize he'd completed the gap between the street and the store until he was at the door. The bell jingled as he stepped in, but neither of them looked up.

Not right away.

He approached slowly, clearing his throat.

Elizabeth turned. Their eyes met. Not startled. Just… aware.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "She wanders in sometimes. Mary doesn't mind."

"She's not bothering me," Elizabeth replied. "She… reminds me of someone."

"Who?" He asked out of curiosity.

"A girl who thought she lost her dreams. A girl who thought the world is bereft of her muse."

Michael nodded, eyes on Luna. "She doesn't talk."

"I know."

He waited. For discomfort. For the usual pity. For explanation.

It didn't come.

Elizabeth glanced down at the note Lily was still holding. "But she listens."

Michael looked at her again. Really looked. And something in his chest stirred.

Hope, maybe.

Or memory.

Or the very first breath of something he thought he no longer thought he deserved.

Something new, but not new.