The wooden bridge was narrower than she remembered. Moss softened the rails, and through the gaps she could see the river turning fallen leaves in slow circles. A fisherman lifted a hand in greeting from the far bank.
He knew the map at once. The bell belonged to a small reading room, he said, built by people who wanted a place to share their books. It had been closed through the winter, but someone had opened the shutters that morning.
Mara crossed with care. On the other side, the path climbed between chestnut trees. Each bend revealed another stretch of water, another patch of sunlight. She stopped looking at her watch and began to notice the birds.