Chapter 3 — First Conversations
Alex
Alex Carter leaned back in his worn leather chair, letting out a slow breath as sunlight streaked the walls, casting golden lines across the room. His camera bag sat half-packed on the floor, waiting for his next assignment, but his attention wasn’t on it.
He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the edge of his weathered oak desk, the soft drumming faint in the quiet of his apartment. Normally, his life was a blur—layovers in airports, scrambling up mountain trails to capture sunrises, jotting notes in cramped hotel rooms. But here, in this stillness, he felt something unfamiliar. Uneasy. Like a stone skipping the surface of water, never sinking in.
His hand drifted to the brass compass sitting on the desk. He flipped the lid open, watching the needle waver before settling on north. The starburst engraving on its lid caught the sunlight, and Alex’s lips quirked into a faint smile. The compass had always been his guide, a constant companion through years of restless wandering. But lately, he wasn’t sure what direction he was even looking for.
The phone on the desk buzzed suddenly, breaking the silence. His pulse quickened, and he snatched it up before the sound could fade.
“Library Lily,” he greeted, leaning back again.
Her laugh came softly through the line, warm and a little self-conscious. “Is that going to be my name forever?”
“Until I think of something better. Though, fair warning, I’ve got a talent for terrible nicknames.”
“Should I be worried?” she teased lightly, her tone carrying a playful edge he hadn’t anticipated.
“Absolutely. Brace yourself.”
A comfortable quiet settled between them, the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled. Alex let himself relax into it, idly tracing the edge of the compass with his thumb.
“How was your day?” he asked eventually.
“Busy,” she replied after a brief pause. “I’m organizing an exhibit for the Spring Book Fair. It’s… a lot.”
“That sounds exciting. What’s the exhibit about?”
“Rare books,” she said, her voice softening. “I’ve been sorting through the library’s collection, looking for books with stories—not just in their pages, but in their wear. You can tell so much from the notes scribbled in margins, the corners folded down. It’s like holding a piece of someone’s life.”
Alex straightened slightly, her words pulling him closer despite the distance. “That’s beautiful,” he said, his voice quieter than he’d intended. “You ever think about writing something like that? Your own story about books and their journeys?”
Her laugh came again, softer this time, tinged with hesitation. “Oh, no. I’m not a writer.”
“Says the woman who just turned a stack of books into a masterpiece,” he countered.
The pause on the other end stretched long enough for him to wonder if he’d pushed too far.
“What about you?” she asked suddenly, her voice curious. “You write for a living, don’t you? What’s it like, capturing stories while traveling all the time?”
Alex hesitated, his usual polished answer catching on the edge of his thoughts. Coming from Lily, the question felt different. He glanced at his camera bag on the floor, its strap curled like a question mark.
“It’s… unpredictable,” he said eventually. “One day, you’re chasing a sunrise over a mountain ridge; the next, you’re stuck in customs trying to explain why your bag is full of suspicious-looking camera gear. It’s exhilarating, but… sometimes it feels like I’m just skipping stones across the surface of life. Never staying long enough to see what’s underneath.”
Her silence was perceptive, not awkward. Her response, when it came, was soft but certain. “That sounds lonely.”
The words hit him like an arrow finding its mark—too accurate to ignore. He glanced at the compass in his hand, the needle quivering faintly.
“Well, I’ve got geese to keep me company. They’re surprisingly judgmental, though,” he joked, deflecting with a grin he knew she couldn’t see.
Lily chuckled, the weight of her observation lingering despite his humor. “Do you ever think about stopping? Finding a place to settle down?”
He hesitated, the question cutting deeper than he expected. “What would I even do with roots?”
“What about you?” he asked, steering the conversation back to her. “Ever think about leaving your little town?”
“All the time,” she admitted, surprising him with her candor. “But thinking about it and doing it are… very different things.”
Alex wanted to press her, to ask why, but something in her tone urged him to tread lightly. “If you ever decide to break free, let me know. I’ll plan your first adventure.”
“Are you offering to be my travel guide?”
“Absolutely. Though, I should warn you, my idea of planning is picking where to eat when we get there.”
Her laugh this time was louder, freer, and it loosened something in his chest.
“Noted,” she said warmly.
The conversation drifted into lighter anecdotes—her favorite café, his failed attempt to photograph a flock of geese. As the minutes stretched into an hour, Alex found himself leaning into the rhythm of her voice, the way it cut through the quiet of his apartment.
When the call ended, the stillness returned, heavier now. Alex leaned back in his chair, turning the compass over in his hand. Its needle twitched, searching for direction.
For the first time in a long while, Alex wasn’t thinking about the destination ahead. He was thinking about the next call—and the woman on the other end of the line.
