CHAPTER ONE

The light upstairs

Every evening at seven, the window above the empty bookshop filled with a light the colour of honey.

Mira noticed it first on a Tuesday. She had missed her tram, bought a pear she did not particularly want, and taken the long way home because the short way felt too much like admitting defeat.

The bookshop had been closed for years. Its sign still read Small Hours, in letters that leaned together like friends sharing a secret.

But tonight, between the faded curtains, someone had placed a little card.

“If you have a story you cannot put down,
come upstairs.”