I thought he was waiting for someone. But as the hour turned, I realized: Jarw was waiting for time itself to admit it had made a mistake. By the window, Merida was building a house of cards. She was seven, maybe eight. Her mother (presumably the woman who kept checking her phone by the biography section) had told her to “be still.” Merida had interpreted this as “be still except for your hands.”
Vera wasn't there. Not in body. But her notes were—scattered across my table, because I was supposed to be writing her biography. Vera had been a librarian here in the 1940s. She had hidden a collection of forbidden poetry inside the bindings of old agricultural reports. She had been fired for it. She had never apologized.
— End of post
Every sixty seconds, he would tap his ring—silver, worn thin—against the wooden arm of his chair. Tap. Then nothing. Tap. Then nothing.
She built with the focus of a tiny architect. Each card placed at a perfect, trembling angle. She did not look at Jarw. She did not look at me. She looked only at the tower, as if it were the only honest thing in the room. vera jarw merida sat
When it fell (it always falls), she did not cry. She simply began again.
I looked from Jarw (waiting) to Merida (building) to Vera’s words (defiant). I thought he was waiting for someone
There are some Saturdays that feel like a sentence rather than a gift. This was one of them.