She makes him more happy than the ever-expanding universe ever could. She makes him more happy than the stars and the sky and everything in between. The little raindrops and the little rainbows and the little milky way in her eyes that only he can...
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PER DE LA COURT ROLLED HER CHAIR BACK AND SIGHED, FLOPPING BACKWARDS. Something was amiss. She perused Huck Finn as her teacher had suggested, and oh, the thrill of it [insert sarcasm]; her calendar was barren, utterly devoid of events; she had completed her library shift, opting to stay longer to assist Edith, yet nothing here sparked the slightest interest. She couldn't bear the thought of returning to her bleak, monotonous home. Rechecking her calendar, she scrolled aimlessly, wishing for an entry to appear, but it remained a blank canvas amidst a blur of red and white. Her gaze drifted to the library clock, askew on a set of unevenly placed screws: 7:09.
Bored.
Edith Delaney, the 70-year-old proprietor of South Morton Library, remained stationed behind the desk, her grey glasses perched on a petite nose, and her silver-grey hair wound into a neat bun. Piper frequently observed that she bore a resemblance to Minerva McGonagall, with her sharply contoured face. Edith momentarily looked up, meeting Piper's gaze. Despite it being just fifteen minutes until closing time, Edith continued her work for reasons unknown, though it seemed unnecessary; the library seldom had visitors at this hour.
7:10.
Piper was engulfed in boredom. Usually, the library work sparked a thrill within her, not one of unease but a delightful, gentle excitement akin to a lollipop on the tongue. Yet, there was no delight or surge of dopamine to be found; the silence of the library was as exhilarating as watching paint dry. Which is, obviously, not exhilarating at all.
7:11.
"Mrs. Delaney, may I—" Piper began in a gentle tone, causing Edith to startle. A wave of guilt engulfed Piper; she had not intended to frighten Edith but merely wanted to signal her presence. "Oh, I apologize, Mrs. Delaney, I—"
"Piper," Edith murmured, gently taking the younger girl's hands. Piper recoiled slightly, and Edith's blue eyes filled with warmth. "It's Edith, alright? Just Edith. I don't mind, so feel free to call me that." With that, Edith departed with a graceful air, only to pause and turn back, adding, "Go ahead and pack up, since you're fond of it, alright Sandpiper? No one else is coming anyway."
Piper simply laughed at the nickname. She gave Edith Delaney a sweet farewell and watched her walk away. 'Sandpiper' had been her moniker for several years. Piper's first encounter with the library was at the age of six, which was fifteen years ago. Back then, the small, unsuspecting Piper detested the library, with its towering shelves and voluminous books. She was more accustomed to playing football—the kind with helmets, balls, and tackle-induced concussions—than navigating literary aisles. She never bothered to learn the proper name for the sport, being more invested in the game than its nomenclature, although she always promised herself she'd look it up someday. Ironically, she sustained more injuries in the library than on the football field.
