The voice across the room

Morning broke softer than usual. Pale sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, and the smell of toast drifted in from downstairs.

Mira rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet. It was the kind of morning that didn't demand anything from her — no traffic, no urgent emails, no client calls. Just calm.

She pulled on a loose sweater and made her way to the kitchen, where her mom had already placed a plate on the table.

"Good morning," her mom said, without turning.

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Know exactly when I'm coming down."

Her mom just smiled, flipping eggs in the pan.

They ate together in easy silence, the kind only families fall into after long absences. Eventually, her mom asked, "So… what's the plan for today?"

Mira sipped her tea. "Zuri wants me to go to some town meeting thing."

"The council one? That's still a mess," her mom said, rolling her eyes. "They've been trying to renovate the old art center for years."

Mira paused mid-sip. "There's an art center?"

"Used to be. They closed it the year after you left."

That tugged something. She remembered vague moments—her father holding her hand during town festivals, music echoing from an open hall, the smell of sawdust and paint.

Her mom seemed to read her thoughts. "They've been going in circles about what to do with it. Maybe you'll finally hear them argue about it in real time."

Mira gave a small, amused smile. "Can't wait."

The community hall buzzed softly as townspeople filled every wooden chair, fanning themselves with folded programs or chatting quietly in clusters. The walls were lined with handmade flyers about bake sales, lost cats, and church meetings. At the front, a whiteboard displayed the meeting agenda in uneven marker handwriting.

Mira sat beside Zuri somewhere near the middle, her notebook balanced on her knee, although she hadn't written a thing. She scanned the room, taking in the sea of familiar faces. Some looked older, some exactly the same. She couldn't decide which felt more surreal.

"Don't get too excited," Zuri murmured. "Someone always ends up shouting about potholes."

Mira smirked.

A few townspeople shared updates on cleanup efforts after last week's rainfall and plans for repainting the old community center. Most of it was routine.

Then came the topic of the day: repairing the local bridge that connected the west farms to the rest of town. It had been partially damaged by erosion, again.

"That bridge's older than my mother-in-law," someone joked. Laughter followed.

"We should just replace the thing entirely," said another. "It's more patch than bridge at this point."

Mira opened her mouth, but a voice spoke just before her—low, even, measured. Not loud, but it quieted the air around them.

"I'd say don't underestimate the value of rebuilding it right, not just replacing it with something half-useful. Especially if the goal is to keep it standing another twenty years."

Mira turned toward the speaker.

It was him.

Darian.

He sat a few seats to her left, partially angled toward the front but relaxed in his chair, arms folded across his chest. He hadn't spoken until now—maybe she hadn't even noticed he was there. But the room seemed to shift at the sound of his voice.

Calm. Steady. The kind of voice people naturally listened to.

He continued, "It's not just erosion. The materials they've used the last two times weren't made for our soil or weather. I've worked on enough of these projects to know—cut corners now, you'll be repairing it again in five years."

A few people nodded thoughtfully.

Mira tilted her head. She took the opportunity to really look at him—closely. The sharp lines of his jaw, the sun-darkened tone of his skin, those piercing slate-grey eyes that didn't flinch from anything. His hands rested on his arms—broad, calloused, the kind that built things and meant it.

He was still speaking, giving a clear, practical summary of what could be done better—no drama, just insight.

But something in her bristled.

She leaned slightly forward. "But tearing it down and starting over would waste usable materials and time. What if there's a way to reinforce what's still intact? With newer methods, less disruption?"

A pause.

He looked at her then—like really looked. A flicker of recognition passed in his eyes. The same girl from the roadside with Zuri.

"Depends who's doing the reinforcing," he replied, tone cool. "We don't all have city contractors and fancy firms on speed dial."

Mira blinked. "I never said anything about contractors."

"No," he said, "but you're speaking like someone who read about this in theory, not someone who's been in the mud under that bridge."

A few quiet chuckles scattered across the room.

Mira smiled tightly. "Well, luckily for this town, I've been on both sides of it. Books and mud."

Darian raised a brow. "Is that what brings you back? Bridge talk?"

The tension was quiet, but sharp.

Zuri looked between them, lips pressed, clearly trying not to grin.

Someone at the front cleared their throat and offered to "circle back to logistics," pulling the focus away.

But the atmosphere between them remained charged—like a current had just been lit.

Mira sat back, crossing her arms slowly, gaze still fixed ahead. She didn't look at Darian again.

She didn't have to.

She knew he was still looking.