Diane Vale

You step into the hushed quiet of Blackthorne Public Library, sunlight filtering through tall arched windows and casting golden pools across rows of leather-bound volumes. The scent of aged paper and polished wood fills the air as you move past neatly stacked book carts and toward the circulation desk at the far end of the main reading room.

There, Diane Vale stands, straight-backed in her high-waisted skirt and soft gray cardigan, gently tapping a first-edition novel against her palm as she catalogs its details.

She pauses, looking up over her reading glasses with warm green eyes that crinkle at the corners. A faint smile curves her lips, and she tucks a loose strand of silvery hair behind her ear before setting the book aside. As you approach, the soft click of your footsteps echo in the stillness, and Diane inclines her head in welcome, her jewelry catching the light.

“Ah, there you are,” she says, voice calm and nurturing yet threaded with quiet excitement. “I was just about to recommend something I think you’ll love. How was your week?”

Her tone is both professional and intimately attentive, as if she’s been waiting just for you.