They Took Their Time to Love, Because Love Was Always in Their Hearts

In the quiet of the city library, even when visitors were present, the hush never broke. Evelyn never scolded them; as soon as she stepped into the hall where towering shelves stretched like ancient guardians, the patrons paused, glanced around, then approached her calmly.

Good morning, they always said politely, before asking for the book they needed.

Good morning, Evelyn replied with a smile, listening attentively to each reader.

She was naturally kind and courteous, and the library felt like a proper fit. Sometimes she thought, Its a blessing that fate led me down this path; I cant imagine a job where Id feel so at peace and eager every day. Most of the visitors are wellmannered, too.

Of course, there were moments when an impatient patron stormed in, eyes darting, demanding a title. Evelyn would locate the volume, fill out the card, and hand it over without a word of protest. Patience, after all, was part of her trade.

She had loved reading since childhood, so choosing a career among the stacks was inevitable. Books were her element; she moved through the aisles with confidence, a wellread mind that had devoured countless stories.

While her friends chased dates, juggled jobs, raised children, moved house, argued and made up, Evelyn simply lived at her own steady rhythm.

She spoke in a soft, calm voice, habitually straightening her spectacles when something fell out of place. Her grey eyes held a warm look, her light hair was always tucked into a neat bun at the nape, and she dressed neatly and formally.

At twentyseven, just two days after her birthday, a handsome young man in glasses entered the library. She gave him a quick onceover and thought, He looks pleasant, perhaps in his early thirties.

She realized she hadnt really taken note of the men who wandered among the shelves before, but this time something caught her eye.

A good afternoon, the newcomer said politely.

Good afternoon, Evelyn answered in kind.

Im looking for a book, he paused, apparently searching his memory for the authors name, then said confidently, Do you have it? He glanced up at the impressive rows of books and adjusted his glasses.

Itll just be a moment, Evelyn replied, The book is on the top shelf, Ill fetch it for you. She slipped behind the stacks while the patron surveyed the reading room.

The man was Thomas, a shy engineer who worked in the architectural department, poring over old plans and drafting new ones. When Evelyn returned with the volume, he offered a warm smile.

She settled at the desk to fill out the loan card, learned his nameThomasand watched him fumble a little as he tried to sign.

Thank you, he said suddenly, realizing he had forgotten his manners.

Youre welcome, she replied.

A strange silence settled over the room. They stared at each other, each unable to move. Time seemed to stretch, though neither could say how long. Finally, Evelyn broke the quiet.

Thomas, do you need anything else?

Yes well, actually he stammered, then gathered his courage. You know my name; may I ask yours?

Evelyn, she said modestly.

Evelyn a lovely name, quintessentially English, he mused, then fell silent. Evelyn saw the shyness in his eyes and understood, for she was much the same.

Thank you, Thomas said again, Ill take good care of the book. Goodbye.

Goodbye, she answered politely.

Evelyn trusted he would return it; his neat appearancepressed trousers, crisp shirt, a wellfitted jacket, polished shoesspoke of a careful man who respected his belongings. She watched him leave, and a thought fluttered through her mind: Were like kindred spirits; I feel a connection.

She laughed at herself. What am I doing? Ive never fixated on patrons before.

Thomas left the library a little rattled. What a charming librarian, he muttered to himself, She belongs here; this is her natural place. And my own clumsinessmy modesty only hinders me. Ill never get her out of my head.

The rest of his workday was a blur; he kept glancing at the architectural drawings, but his mind kept drifting back to Evelyn.

The next day, during his lunch break, he returned under the pretext of borrowing another book.

Good morning, Evelyn, she said, lifting her eyes to meet his. He was taken aback by the intensity of her gaze.

Good morning, she replied, smiling as though to an old friend, Do you need another book?

Thomas blushed, hesitated, then said, Honestly, I came here just to see you. Ive been meaning to be straight with you I like you a great deal Please forgive my boldness.

Evelyns eyes brightened, her cheeks flushed too.

Why apologise? I liked you as well yesterday. In fact, I didnt sleep well after leaving the library, she admitted.

He chuckled, Me too. I barely closed my eyes.

A brief, awkward pause followed. At last, Thomas found his words. Evelyn, may I walk you home after work?

Yes, she answered shyly, with a small smile.

From that day onward, their meetings turned into walks through the park, where Thomas spoke animatedly about his designs and Evelyn shared her love of literature. Books are like people, she would say, each has its own soul. He never found her comparison odd; he understood how dear her work was to her.

When autumn arrived, they spent long afternoons sipping tea at Evelyns cottage, often sitting in comfortable silence, simply enjoying each others company.

Evelyn had always dreamed of visiting Venice, having read countless travelogues about its winding canals. Thomas listened, picturing them gliding together in a gondola, water glimmering around them.

One Saturday, Thomas arrived with a bouquet of red roses.

Evelyn, will you marry me? Ive been thinking about this for a long time, he asked.

I will, she answered plainly, joy shining in her voice.

They arranged a modest weddingnothing flashy, just a quiet celebration befitting their unhurried lives. Years passed, and they grew old together, happy in the knowledge that they had found one another. Though they never had children, they did not despair. They adopted a black cat from a shelter, named him Bartholomew, bought a cottage in the countryside, and settled into a rhythm of work, gardening, knitting, and evenings by the fire with Bartholomews soft purrs.

Neighbors would whisper that their life was uneventful, that every day was the same. Yet Evelyn and Thomas never felt bored. Thomas brewed coffee each morning in an old brass pot, pouring it into delicate mugs; Evelyn scattered crumbs to the sparrows outside the window. Summer days were spent tending the garden, winter evenings listening to the crackle of the wood stove. They spoke little, for words were often unnecessary.

When retirement arrived, they spent most of their time at the cottage, enjoying the quiet, the forest nearby, the song of birds, and the occasional mushroom hunt. Their neighbours respected them for the calm steadiness they brought to the lane.

One afternoon Thomas returned from the shop with a lovely bottle of wine and a basket of fruitan indulgence they rarely allowed themselves. He wiped the glasses with the kitchen towel Evelyn always used after washing the dishes, set the glasses on the table, and poured the wine.

Raising her glass, Evelyn smiled, To us?

No, Thomas said, pulling two airline tickets from his pocket, To Venice.

Evelyn froze. Their lifelong dream of seeing the city of canals had always been postponedwork, the cottage, Bartholomews health.

But were old, she said softly.

Old enough to know that life isnt meant to be postponed, Thomas replied, Were not old, were seasoned, and its time to go.

They boarded the plane and, true to their youthful hearts, floated through Venices narrow waterways, laughing like teenagers. Evelyn wore a straw hat, Thomas carried a camera, and as the sun set over the lagoon, he whispered, Im the happiest man alive, Evelyn.

And Im grateful you asked me to be yours, she replied, All I ever needed was thisbeing together.

They returned home with a heart full of memories, content in the simple truth they had discovered: love need not be rushed; it simply needs to be present. Their story reminded them, and anyone who heard it, that a life lived slowly, with patience and affection, is richer than any hurried chase.