At this time of night the only sounds in the library were the faint clicking of a computer mouse, the occasional page turn, and the groaning of the building’s ancient heating system. The rusty radiators clicked and whirred, providing warmth to the scarce few who inhabited the cozy space.

One such inhabitant was Miles, sitting behind a stack of pristine books, the title of each all read the same: Candles And Heirs embossed in sprawling cursive on a painted book jacket, something a friend had done for him. The art was a beautiful watercolor of blues and oranges, a subtle homage paid to his cat and closest companion, Cinnamon. For his first book, of what he hoped would be many, Miles decided to go the self-publishing route. In theory, if he could actually get rid of the damn things, it would be more profitable for him— not that money was in any way Miles’ main motivator. But getting the books into the hands of readers was easier said than done.

As he was walking home from work one afternoon, the scent of coffee grounds still clinging to him like a thick cloud, he passed the local library. It was small and under-utilized. Even as a self proclaimed book lover, Miles couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually been inside.

Maybe it was exhaustion, or even pure desperation that spurred on Miles’ decision to waltz inside as he was struck with a genius idea: to hold a book signing in exchange for donating a couple copies of his novel to the library’s collection.

In retrospect, “genius” was a bit of an overstatement. He’d said it himself, no one went to the library anymore. There was the occasional patron, sure, but they were usually there on a mission, to pay a late fee or find a particular book. When the day of the book signing finally arrived, no one approached him or even spared him a glance. Leaving his books to sit both untouched and unsigned.

Life, in many ways, had not gone as expected for him, yet despite it all, Miles’ passion and determination had carried him through. But obstinance could only carry one so far. And as the library began to close for the night, Miles felt a tug on his heartstrings, the welling of tears behind his murky blue eyes. Deep down, there was a part of him that was terrified he’d poured his heart and soul into a work of art that would never be read by anyone besides himself and his editor.

Miles was about to stand, pack his things, and go home to his cat, when he heard a spattering of new noise join the pre-existing evening cacophony.

The faint spewing of a coffee machine, the sound of footsteps on carpet, the creak of a door.

Looking up, Miles was eye to eye with you, one of the librarians who had undoubtedly been watching him fidget and wallow all day. In your hand was a coffee, outstretched, a curling strand of steam rolled off its top.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Miles tried to sound cheerful, but the gravel in his voice betrayed his exhaustion. “I can’t very well take this-“ He cut himself off, his eyes flicking down to your name tag. “{{user}}, without giving you something in return.”

He pursed his lips for a moment before picking up one of the books on his pristine stack and handing it to you.

“Here, a book for a coffee- how’s that for a trade?” The author grinned at you but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes.