Edward returned to the library the following day.
Not because he intended to. He had intended to get back to the field and observe the wreckage—examine the broken frame with sharper eyes. But when he awoke and stretched, a searing knife sliced through his shoulders, and his ribs pulsed with aching from within. Hauling wood or climbing ladders wasn't an option today.
So, he went for a stroll down the still street and swung open the enormous doors.
Inside, nothing had changed. Dust floated in pale light. The scent of ink and old paper clung to the air. The walls seemed to hold their breath.
Mira sat at the desk, just like before, writing in a thick ledger with a slow, steady hand. She didn't look up.
"Morning," Edward said.
She glanced briefly. "You came back."
"Flies off for now. Thought I'd try reading."
She pointed toward a shelf. Basic Mechanical Theory.
He sat down on a bench near the window with a thin book about pulleys. The pictures were rough but unmistakable—ropes, tension, weight distribution. It wasn't even about gliders, yet it made him think. His last model had been flawed at the fasteners. Too much stress, where it didn't belong.
Mira came up behind him. "You know that's a book on mining carts."
He hadn't caught her approaching.
"I know," he said. "But the weight balance still holds."
She nodded once, then strode off with an armload of books. Her footsteps made hardly a sound.
---
He came back the next day. And the day after that.
It was partly the silence. Partly the books. But most of all, it was the feeling that something was beginning to make sense again.
Mira didn't query why he was there. She didn't question anything. But occasionally, when he was working out diagrams or grumbling about leverage, she'd stand over him and let a book fall without saying anything.
One was a sail's log, filled with windy and sailshape notes. Another was a stitchbook about kites from a seaside village. She once left him a scroll with lift calculations in tight, slanted writing.
"See if this works," she'd tell him. Or just, "Improved."
And then she'd disappear once more, silent as ever.
He never knew what she was thinking. She didn't stay long. But her decisions always felt correct. As if she knew what he needed before he did.
---
It was a quiet afternoon, the library empty and still, when Edward asked, "Why do you work here?"
"No one else wanted to," Mira replied.
"That's it?"
She looked at him. "It's quiet. People don't ask questions."
"I do."
"You ask odd ones."
He smiled. "You haven't told me to stop."
She inclined her head, ever so slightly. "Not yet."
It wasn't really warm, though. It wasn't cold either.
---
He was drawing by the end of the week. More meticulously, this time. He wasn't building the glider—not yet. This was a model instead. Small one. Paper wings, threaded joints, glue and wire.
He hid the pieces behind the old bell tower at the edge of the village. No one else knew. Not Elsie. Not Mira.
It wasn't ready to be shared. Not yet.
---
One afternoon, after Mira handed him a book on air currents over valleys, he lingered near the front desk.
She was writing, as always.
"Thanks," he said.
She paused.
"For the books," he added.
"You're not as loud as most people," she said.
"Just try not to be."
She didn't smile, but her eyes had a softer look than usual.
---
That night, Edward went up the hill beyond the village, the model cradled in both hands. The air was still, the sun dropping behind rooftops.
He raised the small glider, fingers beneath the frame. Then he released it.
It skimmed for a moment—diving, catching a current—then settled to the grass.
Not flight. But close.
He knelt alongside it, testing the joints, and grinned to himself.
He didn't need to claim the sky. Not all a
t once. A handful of feet would do. Temporarily.
He lifted it up. Moved a few paces. Tried once more.