Holy Oak Elementary always seemed quieter in May. The final bell had rung, the last of the fourth graders had rushed out with end-of-year energy, and silence settled over the school like dust motes dancing in sunbeams.
Ainsley tucked a stack of "thank-you" cards into her tote bag, glittery misspellings and all. Her classroom was still humming with the ghost sounds of laughter and pencil scrapes. She turned off the lights and locked the door with a practiced twist.
And, like she always did, she walked straight to the library.
The hallway smelled of dry markers and lemon-scented cleaner. When she reached the glass-paneled doors of the library, she didn't knock. She never had to.
Inside, Calvin was crouched behind the front desk, arms tangled in a box of returns. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loose and slightly askew. He looked up and smiled - a tired, worn thing - but Ainsley smiled back with more warmth than she'd offered anyone else that day.
"Books don't shelve themselves," he said, straightening.
"Sadly," she replied. "I came to help."
She did that sometimes, more and more lately. When the rest of the staff bolted for sunshine and freedom, Ainsley found herself drawn to the quiet of the library. Or maybe just to Calvin.
"I'll sort, you scan," she offered.
"You sure?" he asked, his hand brushing hers as he passed her the first pile.
She nodded.
And just like that, they slipped into their usual rhythm.