The following morning, Edward did not proceed directly to the library.
He visited the bell tower.
The tiny glider lay in its hidden place, tucked behind the rusty iron bell and a pile of broken tiles. It was almost toy-like in appearance—a contraption too small to bear load, too fragile to be left in charge of hopes. But it functioned. A little.
He drew it out and realigned the spar once more. Mira's suggestion had been correct—folding it altered the path of the wind around the wings. Not only more lift, but more elegance. The motion felt smoother, more fluid. As if it was a part of the wind instead of pushing against it.
Despite that, something nagged at him.
It was working—but only just. It felt like he was borrowing knowledge he barely understood. Shipbuilders, pulley systems, kites from distant shores. Bits and pieces of other people's understanding.
He didn't mind borrowing. But he wanted to know.
---
When he came into the library, Mira was already sitting at the desk. She hadn't looked up as he entered—he didn't expect her to. But she did look up for a moment when he moved past her, then focused again on her ledger.
Edward drifted between the stacks longer than he normally would. Not only the mechanics section. He grabbed a book on wind patterns, then one on seabirds. Then another one on language—why people were choosing the names they were for things.
Words were important. More than he'd realized previously.
He came back with an irregular stack and started thumbing pages. Feathers, diagrams, patterns of waves. One book likened bird wings to oars, another to sails. He jotted down notes next to his model.
An hour later, Mira reappeared. She placed a thin book next to him, smaller than the others.
It had no title.
Edward opened it and found hand-drawn designs—obviously old, some smudged, some redone. A combination of kite shapes and soaring birds. One had taken pains to analyze them, keeping track of how the angle of wings altered speed of descent. One page even explained a child's toy glider constructed out of hollow reeds and cloth.
"Who created this?" he asked.
Mira was already heading off. "Someone like you."
He gazed back down at the drawings. The ink was washed out, but the purpose was evident.
They were attempting.
---
That week, he constructed the glider three times.
The second model fell apart in mid-glide—one of the reed braces had splintered. He observed it fall, nose-first into the hillgrass, and experienced a hard knot in his chest. Not because it shattered, but because he'd hoped in it a bit too hard.
The third one didn't even get out. It was too heavy, too rigid, and it just fell as soon as he released it.
But the fourth—lighter frame, improved tension—sailed along a flawless arc across the hillside and floated nearly twenty yards before it touched down. It wasn't flying. Not yet.
But it was something.
---
He shared with Elsie the next morning.
She quirked an eyebrow at the reference to gliders. "So you're making toys now?"
Edward blushed. "They're not toys. They're experiments."
"I know," she hurried to say, nudging him. "Just teased you a bit. You get too intense."
They sat against the side wall of the bakery, munching on leftover rolls her mother had been unable to sell. Elsie thumped the crust with her thumb. "You're not going to crash again, are you?"
"Not unless I begin attempting to fly full-size ones around again."
She glared at him. "Don't."
He grinned. "I won't. Not yet."
Then she looked at him more gently. "You know, everyone was really frightened that day. When you fell."
He nodded. "I know."
"I thought you'd quit."
"I almost did."
She studied him for a long time, then nodded. "I'm glad you didn't."
---
Later in the week, Leonard caught up with him drawing out in front of the house.
The old man sat down beside him unasked. "Better than the last one, I guess," he said, looking over Edward's shoulder.
"It slides," Edward replied. "A bit."
Leonard looked at the drawing, then the scratch marks in the earth. "You've been quiet, lately."
"I've been busy."
"Mira holding you back?"
Edward laughed. "She doesn't say much."
"Doesn't need to. Some people learn just by existing."
Edward didn't answer for a moment. Then: "She's. different."
Leonard nodded. "Good different?"
Edward hesitated, then gave a small smile. "Yeah. I think so."
---
The next model broke before he even tested it.
He'd rushed the construction, trying to recreate the success too quickly. The glue hadn't dried fully, and the moment he tried to bend the wing, the whole spar tore loose.
Edward didn't swear. He just sat down beside the ruined frame and exhaled.
He could sense it again—that seeping frustration. The low voice muttering, this will never work. But instead of heeding, he gathered pieces and took them home.
He'd re-make it. Better. More slowly.
And perhaps—just perhaps—he'd attempt to keep a record this time.
---
In the library, he requested ink from Mira.
She raised an eyebrow. "You have some."
"I want one of the good ones. For making copies of diagrams."
She thought, then stood up and pulled out a tiny bottle from the far back. It was marked with neat lettering. She placed it on the bench and instructed, "Don't spill it."
He grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She watched him for a minute as he opened his notebook and started copying from the drawn-out glider book. Then, without really thinking, she sat down on the bench next to him.
They didn't talk much. But she stayed there while he drew.
That was enough.
---
On the eighth day, Edward brought her a piece of his own.
It was a folded page, inked in his best handwriting, with a sketch of his most successful model and a list of weights and wind speeds.
He left it on her desk without a word.
The next day, he found it folded open with red ink corrections.
He grinned.
---
The summer intensified. The days grew longer, air heavy with heat and pollen. Edward's models gradually improved, each a little more solid than the previous one. He started to experiment with various wing shapes—narrow, wide, swept back. Some flew. Some folded in wind.
He failed four times in two weeks.
He succeeded once. The model glided almost the length of the old chapel roof.
He didn't celebrate.
He watched. Thought. Drawn. Waited.
And every time he went back to the library, Mira waited for him. She no longer needed to be requested. The books materialized. The notes materialized. On occasion, she peeked over his shoulder and indicated with a finger at a line without a word.
They didn't discuss emotions. Or aspirations. Or terror.
But Edward was starting to sense her cadence. The silences between sentences. The occasional smirk that did not quite amount to a grin.
And Mira, in turn, never said a word—but began clearing room at the table by the window.
As though she were sure he'd return.
---
It was late one afternoon when the sun fell low and the hills glowed gold, that Edward tested a new prototype from the ridge.
It was the smoothest, steadiest glide yet—long, long. He saw it sail and then fall, landing softly in the grass.
He didn't hurry to retrieve it.
He sat with his knees hugged to himself and gazed up at the sky.
He was not flying. Not remotely.
But he was learning. About lift. About wind. About quiet. About waiting.
And perhaps, in very small measure, about people.