A continuing conversation filled the flame-scented air of the library. Overstuffed, paisley patterned armchairs dotted the room, but only two were treated to occupants. One was a young girl, eight years the junior of her male companion who was offering little to the conversation aside from the occasional specific, yet short question. At last, more than one full sentence emerged.

“You seem much more independent and wise than your years let on. Are you sure you’ve told me the truth?” His solemn expression had given way to a smile.

“As far as I know, I’m the age that I gave you,” came the reply. “And I’m not entirely independent. My heart refuses.”

“Because you’re in love?”

“I wouldn’t call it love.” Her response made her interviewer lean back in his chair.

“An overused word. Attached?” He’d faded back into his expression of quiet contemplation.

“Yes, attached. I’m not saying it wouldn’t be possible to stand on my own, but it would definitely be a long and painful process.” She heard him repeat her words.