In a surprise turnaround, he carried only warm feelings toward Orelia. She had gifted him the wisdom of viewing success and failure in the same light. He could easily have descended into hell following many other great wordsmiths like Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Salinger. The list of unhappy, alcoholic writers was long.

The greatest story was the one he would never tell, of two authors and a mysterious green book. Maybe he could write it as a parable, but after only six months, the emotions were still too fresh.

He replaced his novel among the other used volumes and hoped it would find a wonderful reader.

With no idea what he desired to read tonight, he strolled the aisles, trailing his fingers across spines, gently pulling the books into his palms. He checked the blurbs before returning them to the shelf and pushing them back into their place. None of them seemed a right fit for his contemplative mood.

A classic tonight perhaps? Something by a previous-century, troubled author. Anything by Oscar Wilde would work; he felt like a little comedic irony. Besides writing, reading was his great pleasure now. Avoiding people, his hobby. He was still a crumpled ball of paper, rolled into small nooks to hide away from life while he healed.

He was okay with that too.

William ended his search with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. He’d read it before, twice. As depressing as he’d found it, he admired the twist of Gatsby’s innocence when he’d appeared so guilty. Like himself, if you’d followed his whole life story, which no one had since his nobody status became official a few years back thanks to magic.

For the hundredth time, the question crossed his mind. Was Orelia to blame or the diary?

He’d wonder that for the rest of his life. Might anyone succumb to the pull of such incredible power? Could he, if he’d kept the book instead of using it to destroy her?

He didn’t regret what circumstance forced him to do. In this case, the end did justify the means—and they had been spectacular.

For the thousandth time he told himself to forget it. What’s done is done. Book closed. Epitaph written.

Reading matter chosen, he moved to the counter, holding the novel, and nodded to the clerk. By the age of him, the man might have known Fitzgerald in person. White tufts stood out at interesting angles below a shiny dome of scalp. With so little hair, he wondered why the old guy didn’t give up and go with bald.

The shopkeeper offered a genuine smile and picked up the book William had placed on the glass cabinet which doubled as a counter.

“Was that all, sir?”

He nodded and opened his mouth to reply, thank you, when something on a shelf below the clear surface captured his attention.

Every volume displayed therein appeared to be antique. Each leather cover adorned with the handsome, gold hand-lettering of a bygone era. The one which now caused his breath to stop in his throat lay off to one side. Its matte-green face and striking gold engraving seemed to catch the light in a strange, almost imperceptible glow.