Chapter 3 — Forgotten Ink

Grayson

Grayson tilted his head against the rain-smeared window of his truck as a faint clink rolled from somewhere beneath the passenger seat. His eyebrows furrowed. It wasn’t the first time his truck had swallowed some item whole, but the timing was impeccable—right when he was replaying the morning’s collision in his mind. Cobbled Square’s slick stones and the relentless rain had been a recipe for disaster, though he’d taken full responsibility for the accident. Yet Evelyn Marlowe’s piercing green-eyed glare lingered in his memory, sharp enough to slice through the haze of the day.

Reaching beneath the seat, his fingers brushed something smooth and cool. When he pulled it free, he found himself holding a pearl-handled fountain pen, delicate and gleaming even in the muted gray light filtering through the rain. The craftsmanship was striking. The mother-of-pearl barrel shimmered with understated elegance, its silver accents catching the dim light like whispers of something timeless.

“Figures,” he muttered, a corner of his mouth tugging into a wry smile. This pen was Evelyn in miniature: ordered, polished, and entirely out of place amidst the chaos of his truck. She’d probably wielded it the way a knight would a sword, her weapon of choice in whatever academic battles she faced. He leaned back against the seat, the pen resting lightly in his palm. He could almost picture her reaction if she knew it had ended up beneath a seat that reeked faintly of coffee and damp upholstery.

He considered leaving it at the front desk of the Athenaeum Library, where he knew she worked. A quick and impersonal handoff. No fuss. But the thought left him dissatisfied. He turned the pen over in his hand again, his thumb brushing the smooth surface. It wasn’t just about returning it; it was about seeing her again. Evelyn Marlowe had been a puzzle wrapped in sharp words and perfectly tailored edges, and puzzles had a way of sticking with him. He wasn’t sure if it was her composure during the morning’s chaos, or the way her irritation simmered rather than boiled over. Whatever it was, it stirred something—curiosity, maybe more—and it itched at him like a half-remembered melody.

As the Athenaeum Library loomed into view, its neoclassical facade gleaming damply in the rain, Grayson shrugged into his jacket and slipped the pen into his pocket. The drizzle clung to his flannel shirt as he crossed the pavement. The heavy doors creaked open, releasing a wave of warmth and the rich, comforting scent of polished wood and old books. He paused a moment, letting the atmosphere settle over him. The quiet hum of whispered conversations and soft footsteps threaded through the air, weaving between rows of towering mahogany shelves.

At the front desk, the clerk’s sharp eyes flicked over him, lingering on his rain-speckled boots and the damp flannel beneath his jacket. “I’m looking for Evelyn Marlowe,” he said, his voice pitched low out of respect for the space.

The clerk barely looked up. “She’s in her office,” she said shortly, gesturing toward a hallway to the right.

“Thanks,” he said with a faint smile, stepping past her. The library’s orderly quiet was almost oppressive, but it fascinated him in its own way. Here, the world was contained, cataloged, and preserved within these towering shelves. It was the antithesis of the wide-open, unpredictable landscapes he loved to photograph. Yet for all its rigidity, there was beauty here, too—an unyielding kind of beauty that demanded reverence.

Evelyn’s office door was slightly ajar, her voice drifting into the hallway in measured, articulate tones. He paused, his hand hovering near the doorframe, uncertainty flickering through him. Then he knocked lightly.

“Come in,” she called, her tone clipped but clear.

He pushed the door open to find Evelyn seated behind her desk, chestnut-brown hair swept into its neat low bun. Her hand moved across a leather-bound planner with the kind of precision that made him wonder if she could bend the world to her will. The space around her mirrored her demeanor: tidy bookshelves, a meticulously organized desk, the faint scent of ink and paper hanging timelessly in the air.

Her green eyes flicked up to meet his, a flicker of surprise quickly masked by cool professionalism. “Mr. Holt,” she said, setting her pen down with deliberate care. “What brings you here?”

He reached into his pocket and held out the fountain pen, its silver accents gleaming softly under the warm light. “You left this in my truck,” he said, stepping forward to place it gently on her desk. “Figured you’d want it back.”

Her gaze dropped to the pen, her fingers brushing against it lightly as she picked it up. For a moment, something in her expression softened—a flicker of relief or gratitude, quickly shuttered away. “Thank you,” she said, her voice formal but not unkind. Her thumb traced the polished surface absentmindedly before she set it beside her planner, aligning it perfectly.

Grayson leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You know,” he began, his tone warm with easy humor, “you could’ve just said, ‘Grayson, thanks for going out of your way. You’re a real hero.’ I feel like I’m not getting the recognition I deserve here.”

Her lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile almost imperceptible. “I don’t make a habit of losing things,” she replied, her tone precise. “But I appreciate the gesture.”

“Well, that’s something,” he quipped, a grin tugging at his lips. “I did brave the rain and the daunting quiet of this place to return it. That’s gotta earn me at least half a point in your ledger.”

Evelyn exhaled softly, her shoulders easing just enough to betray a sliver of relaxation. “If you’re finished with your theatrics, I do have work to attend to, Mr. Holt.”

He tilted his head, studying her for a beat too long. “You always this formal? Or is it just with people who rear-end your car?”

Her sharp features faltered slightly, and for a blink of a moment, her composure slipped. “I’m professional,” she said, her tone deliberate rather than defensive. “There’s a difference.”

“Noted,” he replied, straightening. “Well, I’ll leave you to your professionalism. Don’t lose that pen again, though. I’m not sure I can handle another trip into academia’s sacred halls.”

As he turned to leave, her voice stopped him. “Mr. Holt,” she called, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you leave the pen at the front desk?”

The question caught him off guard. He hesitated, shifting his weight slightly. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe it was the curiosity she stirred in him, the sense that there was more to Evelyn Marlowe than her polished exterior. Maybe it was something simpler—an excuse to see her again.

“Thought it deserved a personal delivery,” he said finally, his tone lighter than the weight of his thoughts. “Seemed important.”

Her expression was unreadable, her green eyes narrowing slightly as if she were trying to decipher an unfamiliar language. “You’re a peculiar man, Mr. Holt.”

He grinned, stepping through the doorway. “Takes one to know one, Professor Marlowe.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Grayson’s footsteps echoed softly through the quiet halls. As he made his way out of the library, the scent of ink and paper still clinging to his senses, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Evelyn Marlowe was more than what she seemed—a story waiting to unfold, one he found himself eager to uncover.