LIBRARY GIRL

Ashford, Minnesota was quiet in winter.

Snow covered everything until it all looked the same. The roads. The houses. The trees. Even the small grocery store near Main Street looked softer under white.

Emily liked winter.

Winter forced people inside. It made them honest. When it was cold enough, no one pretended to be busy. They either stayed home or they admitted they had nowhere to go.

The day after her grandmother’s funeral, Emily woke up before sunrise.

The house was silent.

No coughing from the bedroom down the hall. No radio humming in the kitchen. No slow footsteps across the wooden floor.

Just silence.

She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

Twenty-three years in this house.

Now it belonged to her.

She did not feel lucky.

She felt aware.

She rose from the bed and walked into the kitchen. The floor was cold beneath her socks. She made coffee the same way she had every morning for years. Two spoons of sugar. No milk.

Routine mattered.

Routine kept emotions from spilling.

Her phone vibrated on the counter.

Sofia.

Emily let it ring once before answering.

“You didn’t cry yesterday,” Sofia said without greeting.

Emily took a sip of coffee. “You weren’t watching closely.”

“I was watching enough.”

“That’s your problem.”

Sofia exhaled sharply. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re above everything.”

Emily leaned against the counter. “I’m not above anything.”

“You never look shaken. Your grandmother dies and you look like you’re organizing a bookshelf.”

“She was eighty-two.”

“That’s not the point.”

Emily did not respond.

Sofia’s voice softened slightly. “Are you coming to Mankato today? You’re scheduled at the library.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t need a day off?”

“No.”

Sofia went quiet for a moment.

“That’s what I mean,” she said finally. “You don’t need anything.”

Emily ended the call without replying.

She was not angry.

She understood Sofia.

Sofia needed noise. Validation. Reaction.

Emily needed control.

The drive to the university in Mankato took forty minutes. Snow lined the highway. The sky was pale and distant. She drove carefully, steady hands on the wheel.

The university library was warm when she stepped inside. The smell of paper and dust greeted her like something familiar.

She worked in archives.

Old records. Old newspapers. Old research files.

Nothing dramatic happened there.

That was why she liked it.

She logged in at the front desk.

Professor Grant approached within minutes.

“Emily,” he said warmly, “the 2003 donor records?”

“On your desk,” she replied.

He smiled. “You’re efficient.”

She nodded once.

Across the room, Sofia watched.

Sofia worked part-time at the front desk, greeting students and helping with checkouts. She was loud. Charming. Easy to notice.

Emily was quiet. But people noticed her anyway.

Not because she tried.

Because she observed.

At lunch, Sofia dropped into the chair across from her.

“You enjoy that, don’t you?” Sofia asked.

“Enjoy what?”

“The way people rely on you.”

“They rely on you too.”

“Not like that.”

Emily folded her napkin carefully. “You want to be relied on?”

Sofia frowned. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Sofia leaned forward. “You don’t compete. That’s what makes it worse. You don’t try to be the smartest person in the room. You just are. And you act like it doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t.”

Sofia laughed softly. “You see? That.”

Emily studied her friend’s face.

“You like attention,” Emily said calmly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

“That’s impossible.”

Emily shook her head slightly. “Attention is unstable. It disappears. I prefer things that stay.”

Sofia’s jaw tightened.

“You sound like you’ve figured life out,” she said.

“I haven’t.”

“But you act like you have.”

Emily stood and gathered her tray. “Maybe I just don’t panic.”

Sofia watched her walk away.

The shift had been small. But it was there.

Jealousy did not always look loud.

Sometimes it looked like irritation.

That evening, Emily returned to Ashford.

The house greeted her with silence again.

She removed her coat and walked down the hallway toward her grandmother’s bedroom.

The brown box still sat on the bed where she had left it.

She closed the door behind her.

She sat down.

And she opened the next letter.

“Dear Emily,” it began.

“If you are reading this, then I did not come back the way I promised.”

Emily’s expression did not change.

She read about Northwick Heights. About a house by a frozen lake. About a woman named Serena Richardson who believed weakness was a sin.

She read about a boy named Billy.

She read about fear.

About control.

About survival.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the paper.

There were thirty letters.

Thirty pieces of truth her grandmother had hidden.

Emily opened another.

This one mentioned something different.

A society.

The Covenant of Twelve.

Powerful families.

Legacy.

Bloodlines.

Emily read slowly.

Her mother had not simply worked for a wealthy family.

She had been inside something darker.

Something structured.

Something quiet.

The final letter in the stack felt heavier than the rest.

She opened it carefully.

“If anything happens to me,” it read, “know that I tried to protect you by staying away. I believed that power would make me safe enough to return. I was wrong.”

Emily’s breathing remained steady.

“I am afraid I am becoming like them,” the letter continued. “Hard. Strategic. Detached. If you ever find yourself standing near their world, do not let it change you.”

Emily folded the letter slowly.

She stood and walked to the window.

Outside, snow fell gently across Ashford.

Everything looked clean.

Simple.

Small.

She thought about Serena Richardson.

About power.

About control.

About the way Sofia had looked at her earlier.

“You act like you’ve figured life out.”

Emily did not believe she had.

But she understood one thing clearly.

Weakness was expensive.

Her mother had left to become strong.

And she had died.

Emily walked back to the bed and gathered all the letters into her arms.

She carried them to the kitchen table.

She placed them neatly in a row.

Thirty letters.

Thirty pieces of a life she had never known.

Her phone buzzed again.

Sofia.

Emily stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then she answered.

“What are you doing?” Sofia asked.

“Reading.”

“Still?”

“Yes.”

Sofia hesitated. “You sound different.”

“I am.”

“In what way?”

Emily looked at the letters.

“Informed.”

Sofia laughed lightly. “That’s dramatic.”

“No,” Emily said quietly. “It’s not.”

She ended the call.

She returned to the table and sat down.

She picked up the first letter again.

This time, she did not read as a daughter.

She read as someone studying a system.

Names.

Dates.

Locations.

Patterns.

She noticed everything.

Northwick Heights.

The Richardson estate.

The Covenant of Twelve.

She had lived her whole life in Ashford believing she came from nothing.

That was not true.

She came from something powerful.

Something dangerous.

And now she knew.

Emily leaned back in her chair.

The house around her felt smaller than it had that morning.

Ashford suddenly felt temporary.

She had inherited more than grief.

She had inherited information.

Information was leverage.

And leverage created control.

Outside, the snow continued falling.

Inside, Emily gathered the letters into one stack and tied them with string.

She stood and walked toward her bedroom.

Before turning off the kitchen light, she paused.

For the first time since the funeral, she felt something close to excitement.

Not joy.

Purpose.

She would finish reading every letter.

She would verify every name.

She would learn everything about Northwick Heights.

And when she was ready, she would go there.

Not as a victim.

Not as a daughter looking for answers.

But as someone prepared.

The girl who read books was no longer enough.

It was time to read people.

And this time, she would not stay in Ashford