The note weighed heavy in Wendy's pocket all day, heavier than the thick novel she carried.
At the café where she usually worked on her writing, she found William sitting alone, sketching in a battered notebook. He looked up, surprised but pleased to see her.
"Page 47," she said, sliding the book across the table.
He smiled, eyes flickering with something like relief. "You read it."
"I did. It's brave."
He shrugged, but there was a flicker of vulnerability beneath his calm.
"Why leave it in a book?" she asked.
"Because some words only mean something if they're found, not handed over."
Wendy studied him, sensing layers he wasn't ready to share.
They talked quietly, words spilling out slowly—about fears, dreams, silences.
Neither noticed when the café lights dimmed and the last customer left.