The Wordsmith Who Sees My Scars: Silent Pages: Chapter 1

His ink-stained hands know my secret

The coffee grows cold while I pretend to read.

Same book, same page, same corner table at Saltwater Books & Café for the past six months. The words blur together like they have every day since I stopped believing in their power.

Since I stopped believing in mine.

"You're not actually reading that, are you?"

The voice startles me. Deep, warm, with the hint of an accent I can't place. I look up to find dark eyes studying me with curious intensity.

He's sitting two tables over, notebook open, pen poised above pages covered in messy handwriting. Ink stains mark his fingers like evidence of creation.

I should look away. Should gather my things and retreat to the safety of silence.

Instead, I find myself staring.

"I'm sorry," he says, but he doesn't look sorry. He looks intrigued. "It's just—you've been on the same page for twenty minutes."

Heat floods my cheeks. [soft rustle of pages]

"I'm a slow reader," I manage, the first words I've spoken to a stranger in months.

His smile transforms his entire face. "No, you're not."

"How would you know?"

"Because I've been watching you." He closes his notebook and moves to my table without invitation. "You turn pages at the exact same interval every day. Today you stopped."

My breath catches. "You've been watching me?"

"Hard not to. You're the most interesting thing in this place."

I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. I am decidedly uninteresting. Unremarkable. A former writer who can't string two sentences together anymore.

"I'm Asher," he says, settling into the chair across from me. This close, I can smell coffee and something else. Something that reminds me of libraries and late nights spent crafting sentences like prayers.

"Clara."

"Clara." He tests my name like he's tasting wine. "What do you really do when you're not pretending to read, Clara?"

The question hits like a physical blow.

Nothing. I do nothing. I exist in the spaces between words, in the silence where stories used to live.

"I work at the lighthouse museum," I say instead. It's not a lie, exactly. I do give tours three days a week, pointing out historical artifacts while carefully avoiding any personal commentary.

"And before that?"

The question I've been dreading.

"Before what?"

"Before you came here. Before you started hiding in books you don't read."

His perception is unsettling. Dangerous.

"I wasn't hiding."

"No?" He leans back, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve. "Then what were you doing?"

[heartbeat, faster]

I could lie. Should lie. Tell him I'm from Boston, came here for a change of scenery, love the quiet life by the sea.

Instead, I find myself saying, "Running."

The honesty surprises us both.

"From what?"

"Words," I whisper.

Something shifts in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.

"You're a writer."

It's not a question.

"Was," I correct.

"What happened?"

The coffee shop noise fades to background hum. Outside, rain begins to tap against the windows like fingers typing on glass.

"I killed someone," I say quietly.

Asher's eyes widen, but he doesn't pull away. Doesn't stand up and walk out like a reasonable person would.

"With words?" he asks gently.

I nod, throat tight with the memory of reviews that called my debut novel "devastating" and "brutally honest" and "a searing indictment of family dysfunction."

Reviews that my father read three days before he drove his car into a tree.

"It wasn't your fault," Asher says, like he can read the story written across my face.

"You don't know that."

"I know words don't kill people. Silence does."

He reaches across the table, fingertips brushing mine. His skin is warm, solid, real.

"Let me show you something," he says, opening his notebook.

The page is covered in verse, black ink flowing like water across white space. But it's not the words that make my breath catch.

It's the dedication at the top: For the girl who forgot how to speak.

"How long have you been writing about me?" I whisper.

His smile is soft, sad. "Since the day I watched you cry over a book you weren't reading."

And suddenly I remember. Two months ago, a particularly difficult day when grief ambushed me in public. When I sat in this same chair and let tears fall onto pages I couldn't see.

Someone had left a napkin on my table. Just a napkin, with a single line written in careful script: Even broken songs can still make music.

"That was you."

"That was me."

I stare at this stranger who sees too much, who writes poetry for broken girls in coffee shops.

"What do you want from me, Asher?"

His ink-stained fingers tighten around mine.

"I want to hear your voice," he says simply. "The real one. The one you're hiding under all that silence."

Before I can respond, before I can explain that my real voice is the one that destroys everything it touches, he stands.

"Think about it, Clara. I'll be here tomorrow. Same time, same terrible coffee."

He leaves his notebook on the table.

For the girl who forgot how to speak.

The dedication stares up at me like a challenge.

Like a promise.

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