Finn set down his books and took the letter, curiosity shifting to genuine confusion as he examined it. River watched for any sign of recognition, but Finn's bewilderment looked completely real.
“This is my handwriting,” Finn said slowly, turning the envelope over. “But I don't remember writing it. And I definitely don't know how it ended up wherever you found it.”
“Crescent Beach. In a bottle.”
Finn's eyes widened, and he opened the envelope with the delicate care he'd use on something centuries old. River held his breath, watching Finn read his own words.
But Finn's confusion only got worse as he read, his forehead creasing in a way that looked genuinely distressed. “This has details about your life I shouldn't know. Personal stuff. Work stuff.” He looked up, meeting River's eyes with vulnerability that made River's chest tight. “I'm sorry, but I have no idea how I could have written this.”
“Neither do I. That's why I wanted to bring it back. Thought maybe you'd have answers.”
“What's your name?” Finn asked suddenly.
“River Hayes.”
Something flickered across Finn's face at the name—not recognition exactly, but something deeper. Something that made his breath catch and his grip on the letter tighten.
“River,” he repeated softly, and the way he said it made River's name sound like something he'd been waiting his whole life to say.
They stood there in the narrow aisle surrounded by centuries of stories, two strangers who felt like old friends, holding a letter that shouldn't exist. River felt the pull toward Finn getting stronger—not just attraction, but something that felt like gravity, like coming home.
“You said you found this at a research station?” Finn asked, voice carefully controlled but his eyes still holding that impossible familiarity.
“I'm a marine biologist. I study coastal restoration at Beacon Point.” River gestured toward the harbor visible through the front windows. “Tide pool recovery, mainly.”
Finn's face lit up with genuine interest, and some of the tension in River's chest eased. Safer ground.
“Tide pool ecology,” Finn said thoughtfully. “Organisms adapting to cycles of exposure and submersion, right?”
River blinked. “You know marine ecology?”
“I read a lot.” Finn's smile was embarrassed, like he was apologizing for knowledge outside his wheelhouse. “And I find the parallels interesting. Marine organisms adapting to tidal cycles, books surviving damage over time. Different mediums, similar principles.”
The parallel was elegant and unexpected. River found himself looking at Finn with new appreciation, seeing past the vintage clothes and gentle manner to sharp intelligence underneath.
“That's actually beautiful,” River said, meaning it. “Most people think marine biology is just cataloguing fish.”
“Most people think book restoration is just gluing pages together.” Finn's smile became more genuine. “But really, it's about understanding how materials respond to stress over time. How careful intervention can strengthen rather than weaken the original.”
River nodded enthusiastically, recognizing the passion that drove Finn's work because it matched his own. “Environmental restoration follows the same principles. You can't just remove damage and expect everything to return to its original state. You have to work with what remains, support natural recovery.”
“Exactly.” Finn's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “People want restoration to be about returning to some perfect original state, but that's not how healing works. Healing incorporates the damage, makes it part of the story.”
They were leaning closer as they talked, drawn together by shared understanding and genuine excitement. River realized he was having the kind of conversation he'd been craving for years without knowing it.
“Want to see some books that might interest you?” Finn asked suddenly, tone casual but his eyes holding an invitation that felt like much more. “I have maritime preservation texts that might be relevant to your work.”
River should have politely declined. He'd returned the letter, confirmed Finn was as confused as he was. Mission accomplished. Time to leave before this got more complicated.
But Finn was already moving toward a wall of environmental texts, enthusiasm infectious and knowledge compelling. River found himself following without deciding to, drawn by the promise of more conversation and the simple pleasure of Finn's company.
The maritime section contained books River had never seen outside specialized libraries. First-edition conservation manuals, historical restoration studies, ecosystem research that predated his training but demonstrated insights still relevant decades later.
“This might interest you,” Finn said, pulling a volume from a high shelf with the casual reach of someone who knew exactly where everything belonged. “1920s study of tide pool recovery after oil contamination. Methodology's outdated, but the observational data is remarkable.”
River accepted the book and opened it carefully, immediately recognizing its value. The author had documented recovery patterns that paralleled his own research, but with eight decades of hindsight.
“This is incredible,” River said, genuinely impressed. “How did you know this would be relevant?”
