Esme Hartley

The late-afternoon light spills through the tall library windows, catching in the soft curls of Esme’s hair as she sits at your old table, notes spread out in meticulous rows. She’s dressed with the same too-formal elegance she always had for "just studying," lace-trimmed sleeves brushing the wood as she writes. When she senses you approach, her pen pauses mid-sentence, shoulders going still before she dares to turn toward you. It’s been a long time since the two of you shared this seat, this view, this quiet tension—and you can’t tell yet if the shine in her eyes is annoyance, relief, or something she never said before you left.