Threads of the Past

The morning after Emma placed the LOST & FOUND sign on her counter, she woke with the letter’s weight still folded against her chest. She kept it atop her bedside book, as if proximity might conjure answers overnight. And though the mystery remained, Emma greeted the day tenderly, with a kind of careful eagerness that surprised her.

The shop opened to a gentle hush, as always—a sound she treasured. Still, Emma’s mind was busy, circling the possibility that she could, just maybe, discover the origins of the letter through the provenance of The Muses’ Table. She hunted through her logbook, a tattered, handwritten thing that chronicled every acquisition and donation—a narrative of the shop that felt, in its own way, almost as intimate as the letter itself. Compared to her own slip of a life, the entries were brimming: initials in blue ink for trades, long lists of titles, scribbled addresses, and—in neat pencil—thank-yous, often from the older patrons.

She located The Muses’ Table among last week’s donations, mapped to an address she recognized: Mrs. Mona Dalton, 14 Willow Mews. Emma recalled Mrs. Dalton as the small, white-haired woman with laughing green eyes, fond of Dickens and lemon verbena. From the records, Emma saw the book had changed hands several times before Mrs. Dalton, donated first by a Mr. Carmody, and prior to him, from an estate labeled simply “A. Mehra.”

Emma considered all this, feeling the gentle daunting of a puzzle she’d never set herself before. But wasn’t that just it—she’d never asked before. Now, curiosity nudged her into action, and by midday, bundled in a borrowed umbrella, she found herself stepping from the shop’s warmth into the bruised blue of spring rain, bound for Willow Mews.

Mrs. Dalton answered on the second ring, cheeks flushed from her knitting. She recognized Emma instantly, brightening. "My dear! To what do I owe this special visit?"

Emma held up the battered Muses’ Table, shyness prickling her ears. "I wanted to ask—it’s about this book, and a letter I found inside. Did you ever see it before?" She hesitated, voice so small it faded beneath the faint purr of Mrs. Dalton’s cat.

Mrs. Dalton shook her head, her hands fluttering like sparrows. "I’m afraid not, love. I do always check for recipes and old bookmarks, since my granddaughter once left her father’s birthday wish in The Iliad. But that little book, it came from my friend Jack. He pops in now and then to help with the shelves, you see—a dear man. Always has a story. Why, is it a love letter?"

Emma flushed, nodding. The word felt fragile and precious, unsuited for casual talk.

Mrs. Dalton’s smile softened. "I do hope Jack’s found a sweetheart at his age! But if you want to ask him, he’ll be fixing the church fence today—or at the pub this evening, if the rain’s let up. He likes a story, that one. Take care, dear heart."

Emma pressed the book to her chest and thanked Mrs. Dalton, who handed her a lemon verbena biscuit wrapped in wax paper. "For courage," she said, eyes winking.

The church fence stood three streets away, the posts sprouting straight against the puddled brick. There she found Jack Carmody, raincoat patched, whistling something old and hopeful. He looked up when she approached, his hands muddy but his grin warm.

"Well, if it isn’t the bookshop lass. What brings you out in this mess?"

Emma caught her breath. "I’m tracing a book you donated—The Muses’ Table. I found a letter inside."

Jack leaned against a post, thinking. "Didn’t write it myself, though I like a mystery. That book belonged to Anjali Mehra first. She and I traded books to keep our reading lists fresh. After she passed, I kept a few—her favorites. Can’t abide empty shelves."

Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Did she, um, write letters?" She marveled at herself, asking direct questions with a steadiness she did not know she possessed.

Jack’s expression gentled. "Anjali? She wrote everything—lists, recipes, even poems for the rubbish men to make them smile. Real romantic, that heart. But she would often say: if you can’t tell someone you love them in person, hide it so the world might feel it. Maybe this was hers, or for her. Sometimes love’s like that—left behind, waiting for the right finder."

They spoke quietly a while longer, Jack reminiscing about books exchanged, tales of trades and found treasures. Emma listened, saying little, the shape of Jack’s words weaving a soft tapestry with her own daydreams. He pressed her a square of chocolate—pocket-warmed, a little melted—before she left, “for the walk home, love.”

Back at the shop, Emma placed the biscuits and chocolate on a saucer beside her tea, the gifts lined up like small, edible trophies of her investigations. She jotted her findings in the logbook, heart quicker now, as if the mystery’s answers lay just at the edge of her patience.

The afternoon sun brightened, and Emma picked up the phone, dialing the number she found scribbled under ‘A. Mehra, estate contact.’ A man answered—the voice gentle, measured.

She introduced herself, explained delicately that she’d found something precious in a book traced back to Anjali Mehra, and wondered if he might have known her or the book.

There was a pause—then: "This is Raj, her cousin. I cleaned her flat when she died. We donated all her books to keep them loved. The Muses’ Table—yes, we read it together growing up. Anjali was always hiding little notes, not just for herself, but for joy. She believed forgotten things matter more than we admit. If you found something, I’m glad. She called it ‘leaving thumbprints for the world.’"

They spoke a short while about Anjali—the way she cherished languages, how she sent postcards to herself from places she hoped to visit but never did. Emma felt a pang of kinship, as if she and this woman—strangers, except for the thread of paper and words—had both lived their lives on the outer rings, watching, wondering.

After the call, the shop did not feel quite as silent. Emma brewed tea with trembling hands, her thoughts awash with impressions—Mrs. Dalton’s warmth, Jack’s wistfulness, Raj’s distant, loving pride. She reread the letter, seeing it now through overlapping lives—a gesture launched into the world not for one, but for any heart open enough to hear it.

Half an hour before closing, Mrs. Brooks stopped in with a novel to return, pausing by the counter, eyes sparkling. "You look well today, Emma. Flush in your cheeks."

Emma smiled, not quite shy, “I went out to solve a puzzle.”

Mrs. Brooks nodded. "And what did you find?"

Emma glanced at the LOST & FOUND sign, then out into the dappled street. “That sometimes just asking a question is enough of a story for one day.”

Mrs. Brooks left with a knowing laugh, and Emma tidied the day’s gifts—a crumbling biscuit, softened chocolate, the faintest scent of lemon on her hands.

As she locked up at dusk, Emma thought of the invisible threads that spun out from even such small adventures. She was not brave yet, not truly—not by the world’s measure. But she had stepped out, and in so doing, woven herself, however quietly, into the patchwork of stories she had, until now, only arranged and shelved for others.

She left the window lamp on an extra hour that night—the glow spilling down Maple Lane, a beacon for the shy and the curious alike.