The following morning came quickly, as mornings often do when time moves with an uninvited urgency. The light that streamed through the window seemed sharper, somehow, as if it had been waiting for something, for a change. Margaret felt it the moment she stepped into her kitchen, the heaviness that had settled over her since yesterday. It was faint, barely noticeable, but it clung to her like the scent of rain on the wind.
She had woken earlier than usual, long before the sun had fully risen, her mind restless with thoughts of the book she'd glanced through in Calvin's shop. There had been something about it—a feeling that gnawed at the back of her mind, like a forgotten memory trying to push itself to the forefront of her thoughts. It wasn't just the words or the haunting sense of incompletion. It was the way it felt in her hands, how the book seemed to pulse with something quiet, yet insistent.
Margaret had left Calvin's bookstore with the vague, unshakable feeling that the journal was not just a relic of the past, but a door—one that had been closed long ago, only to creak open again, allowing something to slip through.
She had tried to shake it off, but the feeling lingered, like an itch she couldn't reach.
Her morning routine had proceeded as usual—tea, toast, the hum of the world outside—but the weight remained. After breakfast, she dressed quickly, not even bothering to glance in the mirror. The time had passed in such a blur that she nearly missed the sound of her own footsteps as she made her way to the shop.
As Margaret arrived, she found herself walking a little slower than she normally did. The streets of Alder's Grove were quieter this morning, the sky a pale blue, and the wind carried the faint scent of something earthy—damp soil, perhaps, or the promise of rain. It was the kind of morning where the town seemed to exhale, taking a moment to rest.
When she stepped into her shop, the bell above the door gave a soft jingle, announcing her arrival. The air inside smelled of the familiar mix of fabric, thread, and the faint, comforting musk of old wood. For a moment, Margaret stood still in the doorway, letting the stillness settle around her. The shop was as it always was—small, comforting, and unassuming—but today it felt different.
She pushed the feeling away and headed to the counter, where she set down her bag and reached for the day's work.
As she worked, the sound of the sewing machine's steady hum filled the room, almost as if it were speaking to her, urging her to focus. The world outside was moving, but in here, it was suspended—caught between the past and the present, between what had been and what could be. The air seemed heavier, as though the house had been waiting for something to come into being, to be acknowledged.
And then, the bell jingled again.
Margaret glanced up, but it wasn't a customer who had entered. It was Calvin.
She blinked, surprised. Calvin usually didn't come by until later in the day, if at all.
"Calvin?" she asked, her voice a little softer than she intended.
He looked almost… uneasy. He stood in the doorway, his posture stiff, the lines of his face drawn. There was something in his eyes—something that Margaret had seen only once before, years ago, when her husband had been gravely ill.
"I—" Calvin began, but the words faltered before they reached his lips.
Margaret waited, sensing the weight of whatever was pressing on him.
"Is something wrong?" she asked gently, setting aside the garment she was working on.
Calvin stepped inside, glancing around the shop as if unsure where to start. He held the book from the day before, the journal, clutched tightly in his hands.
"I've been thinking about that book," he said slowly, his voice rough around the edges. "I can't stop thinking about it."
Margaret felt her stomach tighten. "What do you mean?"
Calvin's eyes darted to the window, as though the answer might be hiding in the view of the street beyond. "I… I've been doing some digging. I found the name in the journal—the name of the person who wrote it. I thought I might try to trace their family, figure out where it came from, but…"
He hesitated, the words hanging between them. Margaret felt the air grow thicker as she watched him, waiting for him to continue.
"It's not possible," he said, his voice low. "There's no record of them anywhere in town. No family, no mention of anyone by that name. It's as if they never existed."
Margaret's breath caught. She had known, deep down, that there was something wrong with the book. Something hidden beneath its words.
"Maybe it's old, Calvin. Maybe it's just a forgotten part of the past. People come and go, and sometimes their stories are lost to time."
"I thought so too," Calvin replied, his gaze intense. "But then I found something else—something in the journal that doesn't make sense. You remember that part you read?" His voice wavered slightly as he quoted the words, "To uncover it is to invite ruin…" He looked at Margaret, his eyes searching hers. "What if it's not just a story?"
Margaret swallowed hard. She felt a chill creep up her spine.
"I don't understand," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Calvin set the journal on the counter, his fingers brushing the cover as if reluctant to let it go. "I think… I think it's not about the past at all. I think it's about now."
Margaret's heart thudded painfully in her chest. A long silence hung in the air between them.
"And what if," Calvin continued, his voice growing quieter, "this book is calling us to something we're not ready to see?"
Margaret glanced at the journal. Its faded leather cover glowed faintly in the sunlight, and for the first time, she realized it wasn't the book that seemed to be calling them, but something much deeper, much older.
The earth.
The roots.
The buried thing that had been forgotten.
Margaret felt it then—the weight of something larger than herself, something that had been dormant for years, waiting for its moment to awaken.
Without another word, she reached for the book. Her fingers trembled as she touched the cover, an unspoken understanding passing between her and Calvin. Something was unfolding, and there was no turning back now.
Margaret opened the journal to the next page, not knowing what she would find, but knowing that this—this moment—would define everything that came after.