The Littlest Library

by Poppy Alexander

The acute pain of fresh grief eased over time, it seemed, lifting a little and then flooding back to overwhelm her like the tide racing in when she least expected it.

It was just as she always knew: allowing herself to feel happy and settled was dangerous. As soon as she admitted she was content—happy, even—a cataclysmic act of fate would steal it all away from her, just as it had in the past. No. Happiness was dangerous. It was to be avoided.