Chapter 21 – The Echo Beneath the Floorboards
The floor creaked.
Not from my footsteps.
It creaked like something was moving beneath it—something that had been waiting.
The bookstore was colder today. Not icy, but expectant. Like the chill before a thunderstorm.
I stood just inside the doorway, clutching the book I found the night before. The one that had led me to the garden of forgotten voices. The one that told me I had to choose.
But this morning… something felt different.
Leo wasn't behind the counter.
The lights were dimmer.
And the floor kept whispering.
I stepped carefully, listening. Each board beneath my feet gave a different sound—some hollow, some sharp, some almost soft like breathing. It was as if the store itself was trying to tell me something.
Then I heard it.
A knock.
Faint. Dull. From beneath the floorboards.
I froze.
Was it the store? Another hidden room? A memory waiting to be unburied?
I crouched near the history section, fingers grazing the ground. The wood felt warm—strangely warm—like sunlight trapped under the surface.
Another knock. Three slow taps.
I pressed my ear to the floor.
And I heard it.
A voice.
But it wasn't speaking in words. Not yet.
It was humming.
A soft lullaby. One I hadn't heard since I was small.
My mother's lullaby.
I gasped and sat back, heart pounding. I hadn't thought of that tune in years.
"Emma."
I turned so fast I nearly slipped.
Leo stood in the archway between the front and the deeper shelves. His face was pale, but his eyes were bright—too bright.
"You heard it too," he said.
I nodded slowly.
"What's under there?"
He walked forward, not blinking. "Something the store has kept hidden for a long time."
"Why is it coming out now?"
Leo crouched beside me and rested his hand on the floor.
"Because you're ready to listen."
Another knock.
And then… a crack.
The wood split just slightly beneath our hands. A tiny sliver of light leaked out—a pale, silvery glow, like moonlight trapped in the earth.
Leo looked at me. "Do you want to see it?"
I hesitated. My hands were trembling.
"I don't know."
"It's a memory," he said. "But not just yours. It belongs to the store. To us. To everyone who's ever tried to forget."
The crack widened. Not forcefully. Gently. Like it was inviting us in.
Leo moved first. He reached for the edge of the floorboard and pulled it up.
Underneath wasn't just wood or stone.
It was another room.
A hidden library.
Bathed in silver light, the hidden space glowed with quiet magic. Shelves carved from bone-white wood spiraled downward like tree roots. Books hovered in midair, turning their pages slowly, as if breathing.
I followed Leo down the steps—though I hadn't seen them before. The air was thicker here, full of the scent of old rain and wild lavender.
At the center of the room was a pedestal. Upon it, a book floated—open, blank, glowing faintly from within.
"That's not mine," I whispered.
"No," Leo said. "It's the store's."
He stepped closer, reverent.
"What's in it?"
"Everything," he said. "Every story it never told. Every secret it kept safe. Every truth no one dared to write."
I looked around. The shelves were lined with books I couldn't read—titles written in languages I felt in my bones but couldn't speak.
"Why show me this now?"
Leo's voice softened. "Because you opened the glass door. You're not just reading anymore. You're part of the story."
I stepped toward the pedestal.
The book pulsed.
One line appeared on the page:
"When silence breaks, echoes begin."
I reached out and placed my hand on the paper.
Suddenly, I was elsewhere.
Not physically—but deep in memory.
I saw my childhood bedroom. Rain tapping on the windows. Me, hiding under the covers, whispering my secrets to the pages of a blank notebook.
I saw the day my mother left.
The way she placed a book in my hands and said, "Whenever you feel alone, write. The pages will remember."
I'd forgotten that moment.
Or maybe… I'd buried it.
I pulled my hand back and gasped.
The book snapped shut.
Leo caught me before I stumbled.
"What did you see?"
I looked at him, eyes glassy. "A promise. One I made a long time ago."
He smiled softly. "Then you're closer than you think."
The silver light around us began to fade. The books slowly drifted back into place. The steps reappeared.
"It only shows itself for a moment," Leo said, helping me climb back up.
When we reached the surface, the floorboard sealed itself with a quiet sigh.
The bookstore felt lighter.
Warmer.
We stood in silence for a while. I could still feel the pulse of the place beneath my feet—like a heartbeat. Like something alive and ancient was resting just below, watching over us.
"Will it open again?" I asked.
"Maybe," Leo said. "When you're ready. Or when it needs you."
We stood together in the fading light.
Then he asked me something that caught me off guard:
"Do you believe a place can love someone?"
I looked at him for a long time.
And I whispered, "Yes. I do."
Because somehow… I knew this bookstore loved us.
Not as guests.
But as its own.
And beneath its floorboards, in that silver-lit chamber of secrets, our stories were still being written.
One echo at a time.
I didn't say anything after that.
Because what could I say, really?
Some truths weren't meant to be spoken out loud.
Some were only meant to be felt—in the creak of old wood, in the warmth of invisible light, in the lullaby that lingered even after the music stopped.
Leo didn't press me.
He just stood beside me, his presence quiet and steady.
Outside, the sky had started to darken, but I wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
Because I knew now:
This place remembered.
It had always remembered.
And finally…
It had remembered me, too.