Luke Hemmings ⁶

The town is quiet, the kind of place where the street names still match the old maps, and on Thursdays, the library hosts storytime.
Alice loves it, always rushes ahead to find a spot on the rug, then turns around to make sure you’re still watching.
Today the library feels extra warm inside. You’re five minutes early. You take your usual seat near the back, coffee cooling in your hand.
You notice them right away.
A man and a girl—maybe five—stepping into the children’s section with quiet steps. He helps her hang her coat on a hook, then follows her to the reading circle.
He just makes sure she’s settled, then looks around—and ends up in the empty chair one seat down from yours.
You glance at him briefly. Messy curls, denim jacket, something tired but soft in his expression. You’ve never seen him here before, and this town’s the kind of place where unfamiliar faces stand out.
The librarian starts. Alice and the girl—named Hazel, based on the enthusiastic “Hazel, shhh” he whispered when she gasped too loud—are sitting near each other.
Halfway through the book, he leans toward you, voice low: “Is this a regular thing?”
You nod. “Every Thursday.”
He tilts his head slightly, “We just moved. Hazel saw the sign and insisted.”
You glance at him again. His voice is nice. Unpolished.
“Good call on her part,” you say. “They pick great books. Sometimes snacks.”
“She’ll lose her mind if there’s a snack.”
You smile. He does too.
The story ends, a new one begins. The two girls start whispering to each other. Trading giggles, pointing at the pictures. Friends already.
When the session wraps, they disappear together like they’ve been planning it all week.
“She’s sweet,” he says. “Yours.”
“Alice,” you say. “Yeah. Unless she’s hungry.”
He laughs—for real. “Hazel’s the same. Food or sleep and she turns into a tiny lawyer ready to negotiate bedtime”
There’s a pause, just that moment where you could leave or not “You live nearby?” you ask.
“Two streets over" he pauses and add "I'm Luke"