Last autumn, I found myself in Ellsworth, Maine, a small town where the trees turned gold and the air smelled of woodsmoke. I was house-sitting for a friend, but the real reason I stayed was a bookstore on Cedar Lane — a narrow, dusty place with a sign that creaked in the wind. The owner, a woman named Agnes, had eyes that didn't quite track me, and shelves that seemed deeper inside than the building's walls allowed. She gave me a book, leather-bound and scentless, that she said belonged to someone else. I read it that night, alone in the borrowed house, and the words didn't end when I closed the cover. They followed me through the rooms, whispering in a voice that wasn't mine. This is the story of that book, and the last page I never turned.
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