LYRA’S POV
The heavy double doors of the Garrison Heights library swung shut behind me, cutting off the muted buzz of the hallway and muffling the ocean wind sweeping across the courtyard.
I leaned against the wood for a quick second, letting out a slow, steady breath.
My eyes were dry and grainy from the handful of hours of sleep I’d managed to steal after my shift at The Rusty Spoke. Last night felt like a fever dream now. The lingering smell of diner coffee, the dark timberline archives on my broken tablet screen, the terrifying nineteenth-century accounts of territorial beasts—it all seemed absurd in the harsh, practical light of morning.
It was just folklore, I reminded myself, pulling the strap of my tote bag tighter across my shoulder. Old stories meant to scare people in the da
