November 29, Friday

PAPER SNOWFLAKES decorated Main Street's shop windows, and tinsel garlands stretched between lampposts caught the sunlight. The sidewalks bustled with shoppers carrying bags from Irving's small businesses, everyone seeming determined to support their neighbors during the holidays.

My heart caught when I saw the "EVERYTHING MUST GO" signs plastered across Blakemore Books' windows. Inside, the usually cozy shop looked stark, shelves half-empty, with cardboard boxes scattered everywhere.

The bell chimed mournfully as I entered. Dora looked up from a stack of romance novels she was pricing, dark circles under her eyes telling their own story.

"Josephine!" She managed a wan smile. "Looking for anything specific?"

"Everything," I said, pulling out my credit card. "I'll take all your remaining gothic romances. And those mystery paperbacks. And..." I gestured to a shelf of literary fiction. "Those too."

"But... that's a lot of books." Dora blinked. "And we're not discounting yet."

"Good. Ring them up at full price."

She began scanning books, her hands trembling slightly. "Have you had any luck? With Uncle Wayne's manuscript?"

I thought of my own manuscript, still unfinished, and Curtis's threats looming. "Not yet. I'm still trying to finish my own book, but when I get back to New York, I'll look into it."

"It's okay." She added another stack to my total. "Just... thank you for trying. For caring about his story."

The bell chimed again. Reverend Abernathy entered, making a beeline for the religion section where he began loading Bibles into a cardboard box.

"Giving them away at the food bank," he explained, noticing my curious look. "Everyone should have access to the Good Book." He pulled a leather-bound volume from his box. "Including you, Ms. Vanguard."

"Oh, no, thank you." I busied myself with my growing pile of purchases. "I'm not really..."

"Have you ever read it?" His voice was gentle but insistent. "The Bible contains some of the greatest stories ever told. Love, betrayal, redemption, sacrifice." He smiled. "Every author should know these stories, if only for cultural reference."

Something in his tone—that subtle mix of judgment and concern—made me reach for the offered book. It felt heavy in my hands, weighted with centuries of belief and expectation.

"Thank you," I said stiffly, adding it to my pile.

"Your soul may thank me later." He returned to filling his box, humming what sounded like "Amazing Grace."

I turned back to Dora, who was calculating my total. Through the shop window, I could see Kelly and Uncle Pete hanging Christmas wreaths at the boarded up funeral home, their movements careful and coordinated.

"That's four hundred and twelve dollars," Dora said apologetically.

I handed over my card without hesitation. "Do you need help boxing these up?"

"I've got it." She began carefully wrapping the older volumes in tissue paper. "Though... would you like Uncle Wayne's personal copies? Of your books?" Her voice caught. "He used to read them over and over, making notes in the margins."

My throat tightened. "I'd be honored."

She disappeared into the back room, returning with three well-worn paperbacks. Wayne's cramped handwriting filled the margins, sticky notes protruding from between pages.

"No charge for these," she said, placing them gently in a bag.

I clutched the books to my chest, feeling the weight of Wayne's dreams alongside Reverend Abernathy's Bible. So many stories, so many hopes and beliefs, all waiting to be read or written or understood.

Outside, Christmas carols drifted from the hardware store's speakers, mixing with the sound of hammering as Kelly and Uncle Pete worked. The holiday season was arriving in Irving, bringing its own kind of magic.

But as I carried my treasures home, I couldn't help wondering if some stories—like Wayne's manuscript, like Rose's death, like my own uncertain future—would remain forever unfinished.