My Bookshop Only Takes in Things No One Else Dares to Accept.
One day, a woman drenched from head to toe brought in an old book wrapped in oilcloth. Water dripped from her hair, but left dark red marks on the floor.
She said, “This has been in my family for generations. Keep it here for tonight, and I’ll come get it tomorrow.”
She never came back.
That night, salty, fishy seawater began seeping from the pages of every book in the shop. And on the news, they were reporting that among the victims recovered from a shipwreck three days earlier was a woman whose photo was unmistakably hers.
I knew trouble had come knocking again. But this time, the peachwood sword that had sat silent on my shelf for years began to hum all by itself…
