They never hurried to love, because love lingered forever.
In the quiet of the town library, even when visitors drifted in, the hush remained. Emily Whitaker never scolded them; as soon as she stepped into the hall of towering shelves, the patrons paused, glanced around, then approached her with calm reverence.
Good morning, they always said, polite as if greeting an old friend, before asking for a book.
Good morning, Emily replied, smiling, listening attentively to each seeker.
Emily was, by nature, courteous and gentle, and the library felt like the very shape of her soul. Sometimes she thought, How fortunate fate led me down this aisle; I cant imagine a place where work feels this serene, this passionate. It is a joy when duty becomes delight, and most visitors are likewise courteous.
Occasionally a frantic reader would burst in, eyes darting, demanding a volume with impatience. Emily would locate the tome, fill out the card, and hand it over without a flicker of irritation; her patience was a steady river that would not be stirred.
Reading had been Emilys companion since childhood, so choosing this profession never required debatebooks were her element, her refuge, her endless conversation. While friends chased dates, juggled jobs, raised children, moved houses, fought and made up, Emily simply drifted, quiet and measured.
She carried a soft, steady voice, habitually straightened her spectacles, and met the world with warm grey eyes. Her light hair was always tucked into a neat bun at the nape, her attire immaculate and proper.
It was the second day after her twentyseventh birthday when a handsome young man in spectacles slipped through the doors. He lingered a moment, and Emily thought, A pleasant fellow, perhaps thirty, maybe a little more.
She caught herselfshe had never really noted the men who passed through the library, yet now she lingered on this one.
Good afternoon, the newcomer said, voice low and courteous.
Good afternoon, Emily answered in kind.
Im looking for a book, he murmured, as if recalling the authors name from memory, then steadied himself, Do you have it? He glanced at the lofty rows and adjusted his glasses.
Youll need a minute, Emily said, Its on the top shelf, Ill fetch it. She slipped between the stacks; he surveyed the reading room with quiet curiosity.
His name was Edward Blythe, a shy engineer from the citys planning department, forever thumbing through old blueprints and drafting fresh ones. When Emily returned with the volume, Edward smiled a warm, shy smile.
Emily settled at the desk, began filling out the loan card, and learned his nameEdward. He signed, but lingered, book in hand, unsure how to depart.
Thank you, he blurted, realizing he had forgotten his manners.
Youre welcome, she replied.
Something shifted in that vaulted room; the two stared at each other in a wordless tableau. Time stretched, unmeasured, until at last Emily broke the spell.
Edward, do you need another book?
Um I guess not, he stammered, then gathered courage, You know my name, but what about yours? If you dont mind sharing.
Emily, she said modestly.
Emily a lovely name, quite common here, truly English, he mused, his voice softening. He sensed her shyness and recognized a kindred spirit.
Thank you, Edward said again, Ill return the book safely. Farewell.
Farewell, Emily answered politely.
Emily trusted he would care for the book; his crisp trousers, polished shirt, neatly tied tie, and immaculately shined shoes spoke of meticulousness.
Edward left, but Emily lingered on thoughts of him.
It feels as if were soulmates, she whispered to herself, then laughed lightly. What am I doing? Ive never stared so intently at a patron before.
Edward, exiting the library, felt oddly unsettled. What a charming Emily this is where she belongs, among the shelves. I wanted to compliment her, but my words tangled themselves. Why am I so shy? My modesty only hinders me. Perhaps Ill never work in peace again; her image haunts me.
The afternoon dragged on in his office; sketches blurred as his mind replayed Emilys gentle gaze.
What a strange reverie, he muttered, trying to focus on the plans before him, but the images persisted.
The next day, during his lunch break, he returned to the library under the pretense of borrowing another volume.
Good afternoon, Emily, she lifted her eyes, surprised by the depth of his stare.
Good afternoon, she smiled, as if greeting an old acquaintance. Do you need another book?
Edward, cheeks flushing, admitted, I came here under the excuse of a book, but I realized I should be honest I like you very much please forgive my suddenness.
Emilys eyes brightened, her cheeks flushing in turn. Why apologise? You liked me yesterday, too. I hardly slept after that night.
His relief blossomed. I did, too. I hardly closed my eyes.
A brief, uncomfortable pause stretched between them. Emily waited for his next words; he struggled, then found them. Emily, may I walk you home after work?
Yes, she replied modestly, a faint smile curving her lips.
From that day, their meetings slipped into leisurely walks through the park, where Edward spoke animatedly about his designs, and Emily shared the stories hidden in the pages she loved.
Books are like people, each with its own soul, Emily would say, and Edward, never surprised by her metaphor, understood how precious her work wasdays spent among the shelves, living the very life she described.
When autumn chilled the town, they spent long evenings sipping tea in Emilys kitchen, often sitting in companionable silence, eyes fixed on each other, silently agreeing, Were fine even without words.
They traded dreams and joys. Emily longed to visit Venice, having read countless tales of its canals; Edward listened, picturing them gliding together in a gondola, water rippling around.
One weekend Edward arrived at Emilys doorstep bearing a bouquet of scarlet roses. This is for you, my dear Emily. Lets marry; Ive been planning this for a while. Will you?
I will, she answered simply, joy spilling over.
Their wedding was modest, not for lack of desire for celebration but because there was never any rush. Life unfolded at an unhurried pace, each day a gentle continuation of the last. They were happy, grateful for having found each other, though after many years together they never bore children.
They did not despair nor blame fate. Instead they rescued a black cat from a shelter, named him Shadow, bought a cottage on the edge of the woods, and settled into a rhythm of work, garden, evenings with books, and quiet conversations over tea while Shadow purred.
At the cottage Edward built birdhouses, Emily knitted socks, and tended flower beds. Neighbours rarely visited, whispering behind hedges, They lead boring lives, day after day.
But Emily and Edward never felt bored. Edward brewed coffee each morning in a battered pot, pouring it into charming mugs, while Emily scattered crumbs for the sparrows perched on the windowsill. Summer days were spent in the garden; winter evenings, they listened to the crackle of logs in the stove. Words were fewwhy speak when understanding was already clear?
Years slipped by, and they grew old together, content in their quiet cottage near the forest, surrounded by birdsong, mushroom hunts, and the occasional visit from Shadow. Their neighbors respected their steady, unhurried existence.
In their later years, Edward returned from the market with a beautiful bottle of English sparkling wine and some fresh fruitan indulgence they rarely allowed themselves. He fetched two glasses from the sideboard, wiped them with the kitchen towel he always used after washing the dishes, and set them before Emily.
Raising her glass, Emily smiled, To us?
No, Edward said, pulling two plane tickets from his coat pocket, To Venice.
Emily froze. They had dreamed of that city all their lives, always postponing: work, the cottage, a sick cat.
But were old, she whispered.
Not old, just seasoned, he replied, thats why we go.
They boarded the plane, delighted by the narrow canals, drifting under bridges in a gondola, laughing like teenagers. Emily wore a straw hat, Edward clutched a camera. One evening, as the sun sank into the lagoon, he confessed, Im so happy with you, dear Emily, I love you more than words can hold.
And I thank the day you proposed, she replied, I knew how hard it had been for you then thank you for making my dream real. I need nothing else from life, as long as we stay together.
They laughed, their hearts in sync, and continued onward, never hurrying, forever together.
