The library sat where the harbor curled around the town, its windows catching every wave. Siham sat at her usual table with a book she wasn't reading, her gaze drifting to the boy at the next table pretending to study. The bell above the door jingled with each crash, and her thumb worried the folded paper inside her bag.
She wrote three notes — one about the seagulls nesting on the roof, one about a fish-shaped bookmark she'd found, and one that simply said hello. Each time she crumpled it into a tight ball and tossed it into the recycling bin. The paper crunched loud in the quiet room. She pulled her knees to her chest and breathed in the salt air drifting through the open door.
Days passed. Every afternoon, he returned to the same chair by the window and arranged his pencils in a neat row before opening his book. Siham watched from her table, rehearsing the walk across the room in her head. She stood, took two steps, stopped, turned around, and sat back down. The rain began drumming on the roof each time, as if the sky itself were telling her to wait.
She tried again the next day. Stood up. Walked three steps. The boy glanced up, and she froze — then retreated to her chair as if pulled by an invisible string. The rain outside grew louder, pooling in the gutter along the roofline. She folded her hands into her lap and stared at the folded note peeking from her bag.
On the fourth day the sky opened. The harbor turned the color of bruised plums, and thunder rolled across the water like a drum. Siham stood so fast her chair scraped a cry against the floor. The boy looked up — truly looked at her — for the first time.
Her hands shook as she unfolded the last note, its corners already damp from her grip. One step. Then another. The rain drummed its frantic rhythm around them, louder than any bell, louder than any word she'd ever practiced. She reached his table and set the paper down between them.
He picked it up, read it, and then grinned so wide his eyes crinkled into happy crescents. 'I've been saving my seat for you,' he said, sliding the note back toward her. On the back, in neat letters, someone had written me too and drawn a tiny seagull.
The rain kept drumming on the roof, but inside the library it sounded different — softer, like a song they both knew by heart. Siham unfolded her own note, the one she hadn't crumpled, and slid it across the table. The boy caught it mid-air and laughed.
