Trisha had kissed me on the cheek, holding me against her tall frame much longer than usual, when they finally left me at security.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said in my ear.

I would have asked what she thinks I’m looking for, but I bet she doesn’t think it’s a secret message left by her daughter.

Lost in thought, I don’t notice when the road dwindles to a small, winding street, mingling in and out of clumps of cottage-like houses and quaint storefronts that are closing for the evening. It’s a world dotted with the same trees that line the road. The sky is turning a brilliant pink, and though Lake Michigan has patiently been waiting for me to acknowledge her splendor, I am only now seeing her unobstructed.

It’s achingly beautiful, a scene from a van Gogh.

I’m struck with wonder, drawn to the waves rolling onto the tiny shore just below the sloping road. How funny that it is only a lake and not the sea. There are no promises of dolphins or stingrays anywhere in its depths, but from here it looks the same.

I allow myself to imagine them, the sea creatures, and to dwell on the idea that no matter what happens to me, somewhere in the world there are whales swimming hundreds of miles a day. Whether I find the mysterious sender of the book or not, whether I read another book or not, the whales don’t care; they swim on.

“You have arrived at your destination.”

The parking lot for the bookstore is small and rectangular and I take the last available space. It takes me a moment to find the store itself in the grove of trees, because it looks more like a mansion than a storefront, a house made of gray stone with a dark red roof. All three stories have lines of windows lit up from within, some shrouded with gauzy curtains and others with chips of embedded stained glass.

Even the front door is idyllic, burgundy red and massive, with a bell that tinkles when I pull it open by the iron handle.

It’s not what I was expecting.

Bathed in a yellow light I thought was only real in movies, I want to believe in stories again. I want to believe everything has a purpose, no matter how terrible. That the fairy tales were right, the stories are true, and at the end of all the muck and despair, light can be found.

It’s the most enchanting bookstore I’ve ever laid eyes on. A chaotic, music-swirling, cinnamon roll–smelling, warm, inviting bookstore.

Somewhere the whales are singing a deafening chorus.

Every wall of the first floor is lined with bookcases stretching from the hardwood floor to the vaulted ceiling, and working ladders glide along the shelves.