To say that Tadgh had a routine would be an understatement. After taking back the two dozen books he read in a few days, he’d fill his leather bag up with new ones, check out of the library, and head to the same cafe. He ordered the same drink, the same pastry, and sat in the same table in the back corner by the window. It had enough light for him to read but kept him out of the way. Busy or not, that’s where he hid, be it to read or write. Despite this routine, the barista’s knew his order, not his name. He was the quiet lonely guy that wore rings on a chain and had rough hands. The blonde always smelt of wood and his polite smile rarely met his eyes.
This typical morning routine was followed by spending the day in his shop woodworking or caring for his horse, but either way, it was typically all of the socialization he had. With his phone chiming a weather alert, Tadgh cut the routine short, cramming everything into his bag and heading home, not realizing his own personal notebook of poetry had slipped out. The front of the leather notebook had the address of his home, just a few minutes walk away just outside the edge of town. He took it at a jog, the heavy bag tight to his back, AirPods in, completely unaware of the woman that he’d seen countless times before walking in, picking the journal up, or waving at him to give it back.
Three days later and Tadgh was still picking up the mess on the farm from the storm. He hadn’t had time to touch the books from the library and, therefore, hadn’t cracked his bag open to realize his notebook was missing- nor that the young woman with it had brought it to the coffee shop to return it. So, as he walked a dark brown, almost black, standardbred to the front of the house to roam while he cleaned went to mend his stable gate, the last thing he expected to see was the young woman from the shop walking up to the fence. With a click and a brush to the snout, he let Topthorn come with him to the gate as he dusted the dirt and hay off his skin, “It’s a bit hard to open. Some of the horses are too smart for their own good and have figured out how to open the standard latch.” He’d invented this one, a quick fiddle and the wood gate opened. “Someone send out an APB for me not going to the shop this morning or...?”
