On moving day — a box of books, two suitcases of clothes and a potted plant that Ben had given her — Olivia found a package wrapped in kraft paper on the small desk in the annex.
Inside was his favorite childhood book, the same copy he had bought at the bookstore, and a single note:
« Welcome to this new beginning. — Ben »
Nothing happened quickly. Nothing was particularly romantic. Nothing was perfect.
But it made sense — in the right way, at the right time.
They got married. They were both there, finally united, like two souls that could not be apart. Like a pact sealed long ago, kept in the heart of a child, patiently waiting for the cycle to repeat itself to fulfill its silent promise.
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Olivia stared at the ink until it blurred, not because she was about to cry—she was past the stage of forced tears—but because the simplicity of the text touched her deeply. Welcome to this new beginning. — Ben.
She remained motionless for a long time. The annex smelled of fresh paint and cedar, an authentic scent of cleanliness. A narrow window overlooked Ben’s garden where a faded swing hung from a maple tree and a wind chime tinkled softly, as if someone were trying to speak without interrupting.
She placed the book reverently on the desk, as if it were a fragile object. The potted plant—with its small, glossy leaves, stubbornly alive—sat beside the package, its soil dark and damp after a recent watering. Ben had brought it himself, cradling it like a promise.
« Are you all right? » he asked from the doorway.
Olivia turned around and saw him leaning against the frame, his hands in his pockets, trying not to show that he was waiting for a reaction. He was wearing a t-shirt under an open flannel shirt, and splashes of paint stained his forearm, remnants of a morning spent touching up the moldings.
« I… yes. » Her voice was weaker than she had intended. « I didn’t expect… »
« I know. » His smile was discreet, measured. « I thought it would make the room seem less… awkward. »
She glanced around. The annex wasn’t large, but it had everything she needed: a narrow bed with a neatly folded duvet at the foot, a tiny kitchenette with a coffee maker that looked like it had only been used once, built-in shelves for her books, and a desk under the window. No photos of anyone else. Nothing to suggest she was an intruder.
« I don’t feel like it’s a loan, » she admitted.
Ben nodded, as if that was all he had asked. « My mother is taking a nap. I’ll prepare dinner in a few moments. Take your time. »
When he left, Olivia sat slowly on the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning beneath her. She ran her fingertips over the worn blue cover of the book. This particular copy. The one from the bookstore. He had bought it without her noticing. He had known, somehow, that it was important to her.
Her throat tightened, torn between gratitude and fear. New beginnings were dangerous. They required believing that everything could never be lost again.
Outside, the wind chimes rang once more. Olivia took a breath and opened the book to the first page. Inside the cover, in the same corner where she used to scribble her name as a child, she noticed a faint pencil mark—old, neat handwriting:
Olivia Hart, in fifth grade.
Hart. The name she bore before changing it to the one who had promised her eternity and who, instead, had offered her an escape route. She traced the erased letters with her finger and, for the first time in months, she felt as if she were touching herself, and not just the ruins of her life.
That evening, dinner was simple. Ben had made garlic and lemon pasta, a dish that tasted of sunshine even served on mismatched plates. His mother, Eleanor, sat at the small table in the main house, her cardigan buttoned loosely and her hair styled in a soft halo. She greeted Olivia as if they had known each other forever.
« Ah, there you are at last! » said Eleanor warmly, taking Olivia’s hands. « Benjamin told me you were coming. »
« I am Olivia, » she said softly.
Eleanor watched her, her gaze clear then suddenly vacant, like a fading radio signal. « Olivia, » she repeated. « It’s a pretty name. It sounds… like a song. »
Ben slid a plate in front of his mother and brought her glass of water closer. His movements were deliberate, marked by patience. He didn’t correct Eleanor. He didn’t panic. He simply maintained a sense of calm around her.
Olivia watched him and felt something change within her. She had imagined that coming back here would mean shrinking into herself, sleeping under the same roof as her mother, becoming an obligation again. She hadn’t imagined being welcomed into someone else’s life with such discretion and kindness.
After dinner, Ben carried the dishes to the sink. Olivia got up to help him, but Eleanor tapped her wrist.
« Let him do it, » Eleanor said conspiratorially. « He likes to be useful. He’s always been like that. Always building, always fixing. »
Ben glanced over his shoulder, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Olivia followed him into the kitchen, wiping the plates while he washed them. The tap was running. The window above the sink reflected their image: two adults in a small-town kitchen, moving around each other as if they had been rehearsing.
« I’m sorry, » Olivia said softly, without even knowing why. For the inconvenience. For the extra work. For simply existing.
Ben didn’t look up. « Don’t be. »
« I’m not exactly… easy to house at the moment. »
He turned off the water and finally turned towards her. His gaze was steady. « You’re not a stray cat, Liv. »
The nickname escaped her so naturally that she froze.
« Liv? » she repeated, smiling despite herself.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a little embarrassed. « I almost called you that at the restaurant. I didn’t know if you’d remember. »
« I remembered everything as soon as you laughed, » she admitted.
Ben’s gaze softened, and for a second, the kitchen seemed too small for the thing dangling between them.
He cleared his throat and took another plate. « The annex is yours. You don’t have to pretend to be comfortable in it. »
That phrase stuck in his mind.
Over the next few days, Olivia settled into the rhythm of the house. Eleanor’s mornings were the best: she would wake up humming, butter her toast with intense concentration, and ask Ben what day it was, as if it were a trivial question. The afternoons were harder. Some days, she would forget why she was in the kitchen and just stand there, spoon in hand, her eyes filled with a confusion she tried to hide. Ben would gently guide her to the sofa, put on an old movie, and sit with her until her hands stopped shaking.
Olivia began her freelance proofreading job in the annex, her laptop open on the desk under the window. The editor-in-chief of the digital magazine, an energetic woman named Nadine, sent her assignments mercilessly, without a « How are you? » Just deadlines, tracking changes, and one strange gift: the belief that Olivia was still competent.
She had forgotten how much it mattered.
Some afternoons, Ben would knock gently and offer two cups of coffee as peace offerings. They would sit on the back steps, watching the neighborhood go by: children on bicycles, a dog barking at the mail truck as if it were saving the world, the old man across the street watering his lawn with the fervor of a priest.
« Do people eventually get used to the return? » Olivia had asked one day.
Ben gazed at the maple tree. « You never get used to it. You stop fighting it. »
She appreciated that he hadn’t lied to her.
News traveled fast in town. It always had. Olivia felt the stares at her at the grocery store, in the post office line, at the café where she’d gotten into the habit of going for a muffin and an hour of pretending to lead a normal life. She heard her name whispered behind her at the market, the way people talk when they think they can’t hear.
« That’s Olivia Hart, » someone whispered. « Or Camden. I can’t remember her name now. »
« She lives with Benjamin Price, » said another voice. « In his small apartment behind the house. »
Olivia’s cheeks flushed, not because she was ashamed of where she lived, but because she hated that her life had suddenly become a small-town story.
Ben seemed to have a feeling it was coming. One Saturday morning, he put down his coffee and said, « Fancy going for a drive? »
« Where? »
« Wherever no one knows our names. »
They drove with the windows down, following the road that stretched beyond the city limits, skirting fields and hills, until they reached a viewpoint overlooking the river where the slow-moving, brown water shimmered in the sunlight. Ben parked and they climbed onto the hood like teenagers.
Olivia tilted her head back and let the warmth wash over her.
“Before, I used to think,” she said, “that if I did everything right, nothing would fall apart. As if life were a math problem.”
Ben laughed softly. « And then life said, ‘No.' »
« Yeah. »
They sat there for a moment. The silence between them had changed. It was no longer the tense silence of strangers. It was the silence of those who had stopped pretending.
« Do you ever regret not leaving? » Olivia asked. « After high school, I mean. You could have been… anywhere. »
Ben kept his eyes fixed on the river. « I’m gone. »
« I know. The city. I meant… to leave for good. »
His jaw tightened slightly. « My father is gone for good. »
Olivia waited. She had learned not to pull on people’s stories like loose threads.
Ben sighed. « He wasn’t a bad guy, » he said. « He… couldn’t stay put. New job, new city, new girlfriend. Then one day, he didn’t come home. A month later, he called from Florida and told my mom he’d sent the paperwork. Like he was canceling a subscription. »
Olivia felt that old pain in her chest — the familiar sting of someone who treats a shared life as if it were optional.
« I’m sorry, » she said.
Ben shrugged, but it didn’t erase the bitterness in his eyes. « I spent years promising myself I’d never do that to anyone. And then I started to fear that the only way to be sure of that was to never let anyone rely on me. »
Olivia looked at him, seeing the boy surrounded by piles of books, the man with arms covered in paint, the son who supported his mother with his patient hands.
« You are not him, » she said.
Ben looked at her. « And you are not your divorce. »
The words fell softly, but they hit hard.
When they returned, Eleanor was in the garden, too close to the fence, as if she were searching for something beyond. Ben approached her in a calm voice.
« Mom, what are we looking for? »
Eleanor’s face lit up with relief. « Ah, there you are! I thought I’d lost you. »
Ben gently took her arm and led her back inside. Olivia watched, a sudden certainty washing over her: Ben hadn’t run away. Ben hadn’t disappeared. Even in the darkest moments, he had stayed.
That made him terrifying.
Two weeks later, the library renovation project truly began. The old library in the neighboring town—an aging brick building with arched windows and an imposing presence—had been closed for years, its roof leaking and its floors warped. The town council finally secured a grant, and Ben was invited to design the renovation.
He tried to act as if nothing had happened, but Olivia caught him staring at the invitation letter as if it were a lottery ticket he didn’t really believe he had won.
« You’re enthusiastic, » she said one morning.
Ben raised an eyebrow. « Am I that obvious? »
« You hum. »
He paused, realizing she was right, and laughed to himself. « Okay. Yes. I’m delighted. »
Olivia herself was surprised to feel pride. Not in a distant and polite way, but in a personal way, as if her victory was linked to her.
Ben invited him to accompany him on the tour of the library premises. « If you want, » he added quickly, as if to make things easier for him.
« I want to, » she said.
The library was redolent of dust and damp wood. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating particles that floated like tiny planets. Ben roamed the space, notebook in hand, pointing, measuring, speaking the language of possibilities.
« We’re going to set up the reading room here, » he said, pointing to a wall where shelves used to be. « We’ll keep the arches. We’ll restore the original tiles if we can salvage them. And we’ll create a corner for the children: low shelves, poufs, everything they need. »
Olivia wandered between the old tables, caressing with her fingertips the initials engraved by generations of students. She imagined children sitting there, reading, building their own worlds.
« You can see it clearly, » said Ben, looking at her.
« I can see what it could be, » she murmured.
Ben smiled. « That’s all the work. »
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