The library smelled like dust and disuse. Old paper, floor wax, the faint metallic tang of typewriter ribbon. Mia stepped through the arched entrance, head lowered, fingers wrapped tightly around her notebook. The place was near-empty, which was perfect. She needed quiet. She needed paper.
Stacks of encyclopedias loomed like miniature towers across the research section. Wooden card catalog drawers lined the west wall, each labeled in fading marker. It was 1987, and though computers were emerging in city offices, this place felt sealed in older time. A place where things could be discovered—but not tracked.
Her footsteps echoed softly as she passed the microfiche station, pausing to glance at the empty reader screen. Light from the tall windows fell in long slants across the tiled floor. A clock ticked from above the circulation desk—slow and slightly too loud.
Mia wandered past the genealogy corner and paused at the community board.
Flyers. Listings. Printed pamphlets folded into neat thirds and stacked in a metal rack. She scanned titles: Housing Assistance for Women, Safe Shelters Directory, Trauma Counseling Hotline. Her heart fluttered.
She plucked out three.
The words felt real in her hands.
Tangible.
She slipped into the reading area, tucked into a chair between two large atlases, and began copying.
Resource Compilation: Subject: Sarah H.
Support Services - local, anonymous, no parental permission required.
She used block print. Careful. She underlined one entry—Arbor Women's Workshop—twice in red.
The desk creaked as she leaned forward, her hand steady. Her pen scratched lightly, rhythmically, across the page.
"Looking for anything in particular?"
The voice was soft, friendly. Mia looked up.
A man in his late fifties stood at the end of the aisle. Brown cardigan, tie slightly crooked. His name tag read: Mr. Howard.
Mia straightened. "Just… compiling."
He smiled. "Good time to do it. Not many folks come in on Wednesdays."
He glanced at her stack of pamphlets and didn't question it. Instead, he said, "There's a print binder near the desk. Compiled local services from the last town hall. You're welcome to take a look."
She followed him to the reference desk.
He handed her a binder—old, heavy, slightly bent from years of use. Inside were pages of listings, some typed, some clipped, some handwritten. Some had smudged ink. Others had been photocopied so many times the letters bled at the edges. She felt a quiet thrill. A map.
She copied five more entries into her notebook.
"Thank you," she said.
Mr. Howard nodded. "It's good work. Keep going."
Mia returned to her corner.
As she copied the last entry, a name caught her eye.
Maiden Name: Veronica Hale.
Her breath hitched.
She flipped the binder back three pages. There it was again. Withdrawal notice from the housing board. Last known contact: unknown.
Her hands trembled.
Sarah's mother.
She copied the line in her notebook, slowly, hands pale against the page.
Then she closed everything.
Marked the page with a thread of red yarn.
Filed the pamphlets back into the rack—carefully, precisely. She paused over one—Teen Legal Rights, 1985 revision—but ultimately returned it to the rack.
In the hallway, her reflection caught in a glass display case.
Tired eyes. Crooked braid. Smudged sleeve.
She smoothed her collar, then pressed a palm against the glass. Cold.
On the walk home, the sidewalk shimmered.
Not from heat. From presence.
She passed a woman walking a dog, the same dog she thought she had seen the day before—except with a different leash.
The dog wagged once, looked straight at her, then kept walking.
Mia paused.
Echo fragment? Non-subjective repetition. Track if leash color persists.
She held the notebook close.
This time, the help she offered would come with no strings, no nudges.
Just paper.
And a red line.
She reached her block just before sunset. The streetlights hadn't turned on yet. Her window was dark. A moth circled the porch lamp anyway.
Inside, she sat on the floor and laid the notebook out flat. She reviewed her notes again—every copied name, every underlined phone number.
She tore out one page, folded it, sealed it in an envelope.
No signature.
Only a title:
When You're Ready.
She would leave it in Sarah's locker. Not tomorrow. Not yet.
But soon.
The final thing she wrote that night:
Assistance, untethered. Presence withheld. Consent required.
Then, at last, she let her eyes close.
And for once, she didn't dream.