Candlelight in the Library and a Sealed Letter

Candlelight in the Library and a Sealed Letter

I was at my local public library, but all the fluorescent lights were off and people were reading by candlelight. I was wearing this heavy, scratchy wool coat with brass buttons that felt like it belonged in the 1800s, and I was frantically looking for my modern smartphone because I knew someone was supposed to call me. Instead, a guy who looked like my college ex—except his hair was tied back with a black ribbon and he was dressed like a Victorian clerk—came out from behind the biography section. He handed me a folded letter sealed with wax and whispered that we had to hurry before the last carriage left outside the front steps. When he grabbed my hand, my chest got that intense, aching flutter, like we were secretly running away together, but I was also embarrassed because I couldn't find my library card to check out a book. We ran toward the exit, but the heavy glass doors just looked out onto a dark cobblestone street under the rain.