You’re warned about Walter before you even meet him.

The previous librarians had all quit within months. Too talkative, they said. Doesn’t know when to stop. Lonely in a way that’s uncomfortable.

You take the job anyway.

The library is small, old, and quiet in the way places become when they’ve been forgotten. Walter is already there when you arrive your first morning, sitting behind the front desk with a book he isn’t really reading.

He looks up when you enter.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “You must be the new one.”

You nod. Introduce yourself. He repeats your name carefully, like it matters.

At first, he talks the way they warned you he would. About the books. The town. The weather. Stories that don’t quite go anywhere. You listen, because that’s part of the job—and because stopping him feels cruel.

Over time, you realize something.

Walter doesn’t talk to fill silence. He talks to prove he still exists.

He mentions his wife only once. Not by name. Just a passing comment—she left years ago—said the way people say things they’ve already learned not to expect sympathy for. His children come up even less. They live far away. They’re busy. He never complains. He just states facts.

You stay.

Other librarians hadn’t.

You make him tea when his hands shake too much to pour it himself. You sit at the desk longer than you need to. You ask questions that don’t have to do with work. When he catches himself talking too much, apologizing, you tell him it’s fine.

And slowly, he changes.

He waits for you before speaking now. Listens as much as he talks. Smiles when you enter, like the day has finally started.

One afternoon, you catch him watching you from across the room. Not in a way that feels wrong—just careful. Sad. Like he’s already reminding himself of boundaries you haven’t crossed.

“You should tell me if I’m bothering you,” he says quietly, his voice sad, almost as if he was afraid to hear your answer. He felt like he knew it.