The library's back alcove was a forgotten corner, its air thick with the scent of dust and old paper. High windows cast slanted light through faded murals of dancers frozen in mid-leap, their painted limbs stretched in eerie grace. Amber arrived early, her art supplies heavy in her bag, and claimed a table tucked against the wall. The murals unnerved her—their eyes seemed to follow, their poses echoing the dancers in Charles's notebook. She shook off the feeling, arranging her pencils with deliberate care, the clink of graphite a small anchor.
Charles appeared at noon, his dark hair slightly mussed, his sketchbook clutched like a shield. "Hey," he said, sliding into the seat across from her, his voice low, almost lost in the alcove's hush. His eyes flicked to the murals, a shadow crossing his face before he looked away, his fingers tightening on his sketchbook.
"Hey," Amber replied, forcing a smile, her hands stilling on her pencils. "Ready to brainstorm for the showcase?"
He nodded, opening his sketchbook to a new page, the paper crisp under his touch. They worked in near silence at first, the scratch of pencils the only sound, a fragile rhythm between them. Charles's cityscape took shape—buildings that curved like waves, defying gravity yet somehow believable, their lines alive with motion. Amber's forest scene, meant to capture light through leaves, felt flat, the shadows wrong, her pencil hesitant.
"It's not working," she sighed, pushing her paper away, frustration knotting her chest.
Charles hesitated, his pencil pausing, then leaned closer, his sleeve brushing the table. "Can I?" he asked, gesturing to her pencil, his voice soft, cautious.
She handed it over, watching as he made light, quick strokes in the corner of her page. "Light's not just bright or dark," he said, his tone almost reverent. "It moves the eye, like a path." His lines wove a subtle glow through her trees, bringing them to life, the forest now breathing under his touch.
Amber stared, amazed, her breath catching. "That's it. Exactly what I needed."
He returned to his seat, a faint flush on his cheeks, his eyes dropping to his sketch. "Just a trick I learned," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"From dancing?" she asked, careful this time, testing the fragile bridge between them, her heart thudding.
His pencil paused, but he didn't shut down. "Maybe," he said, a small smile flickering, gone as quickly as it came. "Movement's in everything, even buildings."
The alcove's quiet was broken by footsteps, sharp and sudden. Lena appeared, her paint-stained backpack slung over one shoulder, her grin wide but not quite reaching her eyes. "Hope I'm not crashing," she said, dropping into a chair without asking, her bag thudding on the table. "Amber said you guys were meeting, so I figured I'd join."
Amber frowned, her memory blank—she hadn't invited Lena, had she? But she shrugged it off, not wanting to stir tension. "Sure, the more the merrier," she said, her voice tighter than intended.
Lena's eyes darted to Charles's sketch, her eyebrows lifting. "Damn, Chen, that's unreal. You're hiding some serious talent." Her tone was warm, but her gaze was too sharp, too curious, like a cat watching a bird.
"Thanks," Charles muttered, his shoulders tensing, his pencil moving faster, lines sharper. His phone buzzed, a harsh vibration against the table, and he glanced at it, his jaw tightening. The screen flashed Dad, but he didn't open the message, shoving the phone into his pocket with a quick, jerky motion.
"Everything okay?" Amber asked, her voice soft, concerned.
"Fine," he said, too quickly, his eyes fixed on his sketch. "Just… family stuff."
Lena leaned forward, her smile teasing, her fingers tapping her sketchbook. "Family drama? Spill, Charles. We're all friends here."
He didn't answer, his pencil slashing now, the lines almost angry. Amber shot Lena a look, a silent plea to back off, but Lena just shrugged, flipping open her own sketchbook to a chaotic swirl of blues. As they worked, Amber noticed a book on the table, half-hidden under Lena's bag, its cover worn, a slip of paper protruding. She reached for it, curiosity tugging, but Lena snatched it away, her movements quick, almost panicked.
"Just notes," Lena said, her smile tight, her eyes flicking to Amber's. "Nothing exciting."
Amber nodded, but unease settled in her chest, heavy as the alcove's dust. The mural dancers seemed to lean closer, their painted limbs whispering secrets. When they packed up, Charles left quickly, citing a shift at the market, his footsteps echoing in the library's silence. Lena lingered, watching him go, her expression unreadable.
"He's intense," she said to Amber, her voice low, conspiratorial. "Hiding something big, I bet."
"He's just private," Amber replied, defensive, her bag heavy on her shoulder.
"Sure," Lena said, her eyes glinting, her smile a blade. "But everyone's got secrets."
As Amber left the library, she glanced back at the alcove. The book Lena had grabbed was still there, forgotten on the table, its note peeking out. She hesitated, then approached, her heart thudding. The paper read: Some truths hurt. Her pulse quickened, a chill creeping up her spine. Was it Lena's? Or had someone else left it, watching them, waiting?