Chapter5
1064 Words
Amira walked into the library at night, She moved between shelves slowly, her fingers trailing across cracked leather spines. Most of the books were untouched, their pages stiff with age, their dust undisturbed. But a few had fingerprints. Margins dog-eared. Covers softened from use.
Those were his, she thought.
She stopped near the far wall, where a glass-fronted cabinet stood half-shut. Inside: antique maps, collections of poetry, and a wooden box smaller than a shoebox, with gold filigree and a silver clasp.
She hesitated.
It wasn’t the prettiest thing in the case. But something about it drew her. The way it was placed was slightly off-center. Like someone had taken it out and put it back in a hurry.
She reached for the handle. The glass door gave a soft creak as it opened. No alarms. No dust disturbed. She lifted the box carefully it was heavier than it looked and carried it to the reading table.
The lock had long since rusted. But the lid opened with a gentle push.
Inside was a journal.
Worn, hand-stitched leather, the edges frayed. The initials A. L. were carved faintly on the front, barely visible unless the light hit just right. Amira ran her fingers over them, her chest tightening without reason.
There was no latch to hold it shut but it didn’t open. Not willingly.
She flipped to the edge and found it.
A thin ribbon, looped around the pages three times and tied in a knot.
Deliberate. Careful. Like someone had wanted to keep whatever was inside in.
She looked around out of instinct, not fear. The library was empty.
Amira tugged gently at the knot.
It didn’t budge.
Not with pulling. Not with picking.
She reached for the edge of the ribbon and felt a small, cold metal pin. A lock. Tiny, nearly invisible, like a secret sewn into lace.
Of course. Whoever A.L. was, she hadn’t wanted anyone reading her thoughts.
Amira turned the journal over, checked the spine, and shook it lightly. Nothing fell out. No key. No loose thread. No secret compartment.
She brought it closer to her chest, not even realizing how tightly she was holding it until her fingers began to ache.
Who was she?
A name floated up from somewhere.
Annalise.
The one everyone tiptoed around. The one they said Grayson had once loved.
The one who’d died here.
Amira hadn’t asked how. People didn’t talk about it. Not directly. But she’d overheard enough. The staff’s voices dropped when they mentioned her name. Conversations twisted like candle smoke the moment she walked in. And Lady Ashcroft… she never mentioned her son’s past. Not in words. Just in rules.
Don’t speak to him unless necessary.
Don’t linger in the West Wing.
Don’t stay out past midnight.
And now here Amira was breaking all three rules in spirit.
She brushed a thumb over the soft leather cover again. The journal felt warm, almost alive in her hands, as if it held more than just words. Like it remembered the girl who wrote it. And maybe, just maybe, the way she died.
A soft breeze pushed through the cracked window.
Amira froze.
Not from the cold, but from a sound.
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy.
Down the hall, just beyond the library doors.
She slipped the journal back into the box, shut the lid, and pressed it into the bookshelf behind her too fast, too loudly. The thud echoed like a heartbeat against the wood. She stepped back just as the door creaked open.
And there he was.
Grayson.
His eyes swept the room in a second. Found her. Stayed.
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her. Then at the empty table in front of her. His gaze dropped to her hands.
They were clenched.
“You’re not supposed to be in here after hours,” he said, his voice calm. Controlled.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
A pause.
“Books help?”
“Sometimes.”
Another beat of silence stretched between them. Not hostile. Just… cautious.
He stepped inside, letting the door drift closed behind him. The library suddenly felt smaller.
“There’s a draft,” he said, moving toward the window. He shut it with a gentle click.
She could feel him behind her. Not close, but there. Like gravity.
Amira spoke without thinking. “Who was A. L.?”
Grayson didn’t answer.
When she turned to face him, his expression had gone blank. The carefully built wall behind his eyes slammed shut.
He knew.
Of course he did.
“Where did you hear that name?” he asked quietly.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I saw it. In a journal.”
His gaze dropped, and for the briefest second, something cracked. Not enough to see through just enough to hear the silence behind it.
“That belonged to Annalise,” he said. “Don’t read it.”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m serious, Amira.”
Her name sounded sharp in his mouth. Not cruel. Just… close. Too close.
“I wasn’t trying to pry,” she said softly.
“I know.” His jaw tightened. “But that journal doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t even belong to me.”
She nodded.
He turned to leave. But just before the door shut behind him, he said something so low she almost missed it.
“She used to sit in that chair.”
Then he was gone.
The room felt like it remembered too much.
Amira stretched, stifling a yawn as she padded down the dim hallway. Her bedroom door creaked softly open. Moonlight spilled across the sheets.
She curled beneath the covers, but sleep didn’t come. The silence in her room was thick, broken only by the ticking of the old wall clock. Yet her mind was miles away still in that study, still staring at the journal she’d left behind.
Grayson’s voice wouldn’t stop playing in her head.
“Don’t open it.”
He hadn’t asked. He’d commanded.
Her brow furrowed against the pillow.
She flipped to her other side, restless. I know it is meant for Annalise, but why can I open it?
She exhaled sharply. He doesn’t want me to know something. That much is clear. But what? And why now?
The ceiling offered no answers. Only the steady weight of questions that refused to sleep.
- Writer
