Flannel and Frost
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 2
The bell above the library door chimed with a soft, old-fashioned ring as Ryan stepped inside. The sound was gentle, almost apologetic—as if even the bell understood that this was the kind of place where noise should tread lightly.
The warmth hit him first. Not temperature, but atmosphere. A kind of lived-in coziness. The scent followed close behind: the unmistakable perfume of aging paper, mingled with pine-scented cleaner and something faintly sweet—maybe chamomile or old wood polish. It smelled like time well-kept.
The Willow Creek Public Library wasn’t large. A single open room with tall windows at the back, beams running across the ceiling, and rows of bookshelves that looked as though they’d been built by hand a lifetime ago. No sleek modern lines here—just sturdy oak shelves softened by decades of fingerprints. A few mismatched armchairs formed a small reading nook beside a stone fireplace that hadn’t been lit yet this season.
Ryan hesitated just inside the entrance, letting his eyes adjust and his nerves settle. The place reminded him of the libraries of his childhood, back before everything had turned into screens and online research pulls. Here, there was space to breathe.
A circulation desk sat to the left, draped in a handwoven blanket someone had presumably donated. No librarian was in sight, though he could hear something faint on the far side of the room—voices. Children’s voices. Laughing, murmuring. And under those, a woman’s voice, calm and lilting in a way that made him slow down to listen without meaning to.
A story. Someone was reading aloud.
He paused, curiosity tugging at him, then reminded himself why he’d come. Not for story hour. Not for people. He needed practical things—business books, guidance manuals, anything that could lessen the sense that he was building his store by throwing darts at a board.
He moved deeper into the room, footsteps muffled by a braided rug. The shelves in the nonfiction section were labeled with hand-lettered signs—slightly crooked, endearingly so. He found the section for commerce wedged between Self-Sufficiency & Homesteading and Local History. The options were limited, but that was fine. He wasn’t looking for a textbook; he just needed direction.
He let his fingertips brush over the spines. Running a Rural Business. The Practical Merchant. Inventory Management on a Budget. Books older than some of the kids chattering on the other side of the room. He pulled out a couple, testing the weight of them in his hands.
The woman’s voice floated again across the library, warm and confident. It had a rhythm to it—steady, engaging, patient. Whoever she was, she was clearly good with children. He heard a small burst of laughter, then the turning of pages.
Ryan’s grip tightened slightly on the books. He felt a faint tug of something he didn’t want to name. Not longing. Not exactly. More like ... awareness. Of a life happening just out of view. A life he wasn’t sure he belonged to.
He cleared his throat softly and turned his attention back to the shelves. One book caught his eye—not because of its title, but because it was displayed on a small stand as if someone had intentionally highlighted it: Opening Doors: A New Merchant’s Guide. Dusty, outdated, but oddly relevant.
He slid it off the stand and tucked it under his arm.
Behind him, the children’s voices rose in delight as the woman reading must have done something particularly animated with the story. He felt the echo of their joy ripple through the quiet stacks.
Ryan exhaled slowly and turned toward the front desk with his small pile of finds.
He wasn’t here for people, he reminded himself again. He was here for answers.
But the soft laughter drifting across the room stayed with him, threading under his thoughts like a tune he wasn’t quite ready to listen to—but couldn’t completely shut out.
The check-out process took longer than Ryan was used to. He shifted the stack of books in his arms as he waited at the front desk, listening to the soft whir of the vintage computer processing his checkout. The scanner beeped lazily, as though even it refused to be rushed in this town.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman—Miss Evelyn, the children had called her—guiding the small cluster of kids toward the far-right corner of the library, where a curved wooden arch marked a cozy, half-hidden nook. Painted stars climbed along the doorframe, fading but still cheerful. A carpet patterned with clouds and mountain peaks covered the floor, and a string of fairy lights zigzagged overhead.
A place made for stories—not read, but told.
The children scampered ahead, dropping to the carpet with all the coordination of enthusiastic puppies. A couple of them bounced on their knees; another hugged a stuffed fox to her chest. The woman—pretty, with long braided black hair—settled gracefully onto a low oak stool, smoothing her long skirt beneath her.
Then the chorus of little voices rose:
“Miss Evelyn, tell us another story!”
“Yeah! The one with the mountain!”
“No, the treasure one!”
“The treasure one!” several echoed.
Evelyn laughed softly, a sound warm enough to settle into Ryan’s chest. She folded her hands, leaned slightly forward, and the kids immediately hushed, as if a magic spell had fallen over them.
“Alright, gather ‘round, little ones,” she said, her voice carrying just far enough for Ryan to hear without seeming he was eavesdropping. “Once upon a time, in a town much like ours, there was a treasure hidden deep within the mountains. But it wasn’t gold or jewels that made it precious. It was something far more...” Her gaze drifted toward the tall window, where morning light spilled across the carpet. “ ... it was hope.”
The children leaned in collectively, eyes shining.
Ryan found himself leaning, too.
Evelyn continued, her voice dipping low with mystery. “The treasure was guarded by the wind itself—an old, wise wind that watched over the valley. It whispered clues to those who dared to listen. But only the bravest could follow them.”
“What kinda clues?” one boy asked, unable to contain himself.
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