Mr. Higgins’ bookshop smelled of Earl Grey and regret. Dust swirled in the afternoon light, settling between the spines of forgotten stories. Edith loved it here—the creaky floorboards, the soft rustle of turning pages, the quiet promise of discovery.
That’s when she found it.
A slim, faded volume sat wedged between a cookbook and a travel guide. Whispers in the Attic. The title sent a shiver down her spine. She flipped through the brittle pages until something in the margin caught her eye.
He’s alive.
Her breath hitched. It couldn’t be. Alistair Crane, the reclusive poet, had vanished in 1973—without a trace. No final manuscript, no farewell letter. Just a mystery wrapped in verse.
Edith wasn’t one to let a good mystery go.
She enlisted her bocce group, a lively mix of retirees who thrived on competition. “We’ll track him like first editions,” she declared, waving the book like a treasure map. Between bridge games and Sunday potlucks, they pored over Crane’s verses, piecing together cryptic clues.
The trail led them to an abandoned theater, its marquee letters long since fallen. Inside, dust coated the velvet seats, and time hung heavy in the air.
Then, a sound.
A low hum—melancholy, familiar. Behind the moth-eaten curtain, a frail man sat in the shadows, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his knee. His voice, a whisper of the past.
“You’re late,” he rasped.
Edith grinned, her heart pounding. “Better late than never published.”
The old poet chuckled, his eyes glinting in the dim light. Somewhere in the dust and silence, a new story began.