CHAPTER 149: A TABLE SET FOR COMFORT

The library clock ticked steadily, soft but insistent, the kind of sound that melted into the background until you paid attention and realized how constant it had been all along.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, shifting with the afternoon, strips of gold cutting across the polished floorboards like gentle brushstrokes.

Dust motes swam lazily in the glow, rising and falling with each subtle draft of air.

The scent of old paper lingered—a blend of ink, pine cleaner, and a faint sweetness Noel always associated with afternoons spent here.

He was tucked into a corner table, shoulders slightly hunched, a paperback open before him.

His elbows rested on the wood, fingers absently playing with the dog-eared edge of the page, though he wasn’t in any hurry to turn it.

His eyes tracked the words with quiet intensity, drinking them in like they might vanish if he blinked too long.

Across the room, his father worked behind the counter, sorting through the return pile.

He handled the books gently, with a care that bordered on reverence, sliding each one into its proper place as though every cover contained a secret worth preserving.

Every now and then, his gaze flicked toward Noel—never for long, just a glance, just enough.

"You’ve barely moved," his father said eventually, not lifting his eyes this time.

"I’m reading," Noel murmured, flipping the page deliberately as if to prove it.

His father chuckled under his breath, shaking his head while shelving another novel. "I forget how serious you get when the world disappears into text."

"Guess I get it from you," Noel replied, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

"Maybe." His dad paused, tilting his head. "You still squint when you concentrate."

"I do not," Noel muttered, though his lips curved in the smallest admission. He knew he did.

Leaning back, he let the book rest against his chest, the quiet stretching between them. Not heavy—never heavy. Just the kind of silence that comes only with years of comfort and familiarity.

From behind the counter, his father dusted his hands on the cloth he always kept nearby. "Was Grandma happy to see you?"

"Very," Noel said. His voice softened at the memory. "She fed me like I hadn’t eaten in weeks."

That earned a small laugh. "Sounds about right."

"She didn’t stop talking the whole time," Noel added.

"That’s how she keeps her heart young. Words run faster than her legs now."

Noel chuckled. "She said the same thing."

His father moved toward one of the shelves, fingers brushing lightly along a row of spines before his eyes settled back on Noel. "You... doing okay?" His tone wasn’t pressing, just gentle, leaving space if Noel wanted it.

For a moment, Noel’s gaze held to his book. Then he nodded. "Yeah."

His father gave him a quiet, knowing look before returning to the shelf. "Alright."

Noel reached for his phone, thumb hovering. He typed quickly:

You back yet?

The message blinked up at him. He set the phone down beside the book, eyes flicking to it once... twice... before forcing himself back to the page. But his concentration slipped. The words blurred, his eyes catching only on shapes instead of meaning.

The library carried on, warm and steady. The slow spin of the ceiling fan whispered overhead. Time folded into itself, each minute rolling into the next like the soft turn of unseen pages.

By the time he looked up again, the sunlight had shifted. Afternoon brightness melted into a golden haze, painting the shelves with amber and stretching long shadows across the rugs.

His book still lay open, though he hadn’t read in a while. One hand clung loosely to the edge of the page; the other hovered near his phone.

Still no reply.

The message from earlier—You back yet?—remained unread.

He didn’t type another. Didn’t want to seem... clingy. Or impatient. Or like someone who stared at a screen too long, hoping it would light up.

Instead, he let out a long breath and tipped his head back, watching the ceiling where sunlight only touched the far corners now.

At the front, his father cleared his throat and tapped the brass bell on the desk—one soft chime, their signal for closing.

Noel blinked, sitting up straighter. The room had thinned out while he wasn’t paying attention. Just two older patrons remained, quietly packing away their things.

"Time to close up," his father said as he approached, wiping his glasses on his shirt. "You want to wait while I lock up, or head home first?"

Noel checked his phone—5:12. Still nothing. "I’ll wait."

His father nodded, flipping the sign to CLOSED and drawing the navy curtain halfway down the door.

Noel stacked his things neatly, closing the book with a soft thud. His dad returned with the keys in hand. "Want to help with the back shelves?"

"Sure."

They worked together in the hush. Straightening piles, sliding books into place, brushing dust from corners. At one point, Noel dropped a paperback, the sound startlingly loud in the empty library.

"Sorry," he muttered automatically.

"You alright?" his father asked after a pause.

"Yeah. Just tired."

He didn’t mention the text. Or the silence pressing in around it.

When the shelves were finished, they moved toward the back exit. His father’s keys jingled softly, a sound Noel had known all his life. Outside, the sky was lavender and faint cicada songs carried through the trees.

"You want to drive?" his dad asked, holding out the keys.

Noel shook his head. "I’ll ride with you."

They walked side by side, their pace unhurried. Behind them, the library lights dimmed, one by one, until only the porch lamp glowed against the gathering evening.

Noel’s phone was still silent in his pocket.

The car ride home was wrapped in the kind of quiet only small towns knew. No horns. No rush. Just the hum of tires on asphalt, the fading calls of crickets, and the faint notes of a radio neither of them really listened to.

Noel leaned against the window, cheek resting on his knuckles. Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting fleeting patterns across the dashboard. His dad tapped his fingers to the rhythm of the music, easy and unbothered.

"You didn’t read much today," his father remarked casually.

"I read some," Noel said, eyes forward.

"Something on your mind?"

Noel hesitated, then shook his head. "Not really. Just tired."

His dad hummed in quiet acknowledgment, letting it be.

The rest of the drive passed in easy silence—the kind Noel had always found more comforting than words.

When they pulled into the driveway, the porch light was already glowing, spilling golden across the front walk. Curtains shifted in the kitchen window, shadows moving gently behind them.

Noel climbed out, adjusting the strap of his bag. His dad lingered a moment at the mailbox before following him up the steps.

Inside, the air was warm with the smell of roasted vegetables, garlic, and something sweet—peach cobbler, maybe.

From the kitchen came his mother’s voice: "Took you long enough. The food’s hot, but I almost ate without you."

Noel smiled faintly as he slipped off his shoes. "We closed late."

She peeked out with a dish towel over her shoulder. "Next time tell the books to hurry up."

He laughed softly, shaking his head as she disappeared again, humming while pots clinked and cabinets closed.

In the dining area, the table was set—steam rising gently from bowls at the center.

"Wash your hands," his mom said firmly as he walked in. "No sneaking."

"I wasn’t," he murmured, though he obeyed.

His dad loosened his tie as he entered. "She made the lemon chicken."

Noel glanced back with a small grin. "That explains why you drove so slow. You knew."

"Could be."

At the sink, Noel watched his parents move around each other in that seamless rhythm built from years—his mother lifting lids, his father pouring drinks, shoulders bumping without a word. Domestic. Familiar. Grounding.

He dried his hands and slipped into his seat. His mother set the last bowl down and gave them both a look.

"Well? Don’t just stare at it."

They ate. The rice was warm, the flavors grounding. His mother was already on her second helping when she spoke again.

"I saw Mrs. Catherine today. She asked about you. Said her daughter didn’t recognize you at the market."

"I haven’t changed that much," Noel said.

"She said you looked ’grown,’" his mom teased, mimicking the older woman.

"Maybe less hunched," his dad added, smirking.

"I do not hunch."

"You do," his mom laughed. "Especially when you’re pretending not to care."

"Okay, maybe a little," Noel conceded with a small smile.

The chatter faded into clinks of cutlery and soft laughter. Easy. Normal.

His mother nudged the breadbasket toward him. "Eat more. You’ve barely touched anything."

"I’m eating," he mumbled, taking another slice anyway.

His father sipped his drink, watching them both. "Feels good, doesn’t it?"

"What does?" Noel asked.

"This," his father said simply. "Home."

Noel paused, his fork hovering. Then he lowered it, nodding quietly.

"Yeah," he murmured. "It does."