Any hope that Primrose Hill Books might look better up close was dashed as she stopped before the place she had poured her soul into, the culmination of a lifetime of Mr. Evans’s hard work and the community she had built around the world of reading.

Grace struggled to find her breath, gasping around the pain that shattered open inside her, white hot and visceral. A small painted newspaper flower she’d designed for the window display rolled over bits of broken glass and dust, stopping at the toe of her shoe. She bent to pick it up. Its twisted paper stem was cool and hard where she pinched it between her fingers, its pink petals as immaculate and clean as the day she made it.

She had to go inside. To see for herself.

If nothing else, to ensure the precious books within the safe had survived.

She entered the gaping doorway and walked slowly through the mess, careful to not tread upon the fallen books. They would need to be salvaged. If they could be.

In her bewildered state, she wondered how she might sort her books from those belonging to the other bookshops, remembering belatedly she’d stamped their names inside with blue ink. Thank goodness for the organized detail with which she’d handled everything before.

Not that it would help the other shop owners, as the bookshop was now almost as useless as theirs. None of them would have a place to go.

Tears prickled in her eyes at that realization, at her inability to help those who had come to rely on her.

The back room door was missing, and the small table had been mangled into a ball of metal in one corner. The safe was fortunately still lodged within the wall. She wrestled with a cabinet drawer and withdrew a torch. With shaking hands, she unlocked the safe and held her breath.

Mr. Evans’s legacy was in those precious books he saved and collected.

The door groaned open and an exhale whooshed from Grace’s lungs. The books that had once been rescued from the flames of Hitler’s hatred had again survived a near demise. They were safely tucked inside the wall safe, framed on all sides within a shell of thick metal.

She had a mind to draw them out and bring them home with her to Britton Street. But thought better of it, knowing they were best left in their iron box. She was beginning to close the door when a slip of paper caught her eye.

An envelope.

A corner of it jutted from between two books whose German titles she couldn’t read. She plucked it from its location and read her name on its back in Mr. Evans’s slanted writing.

Her breath caught.

She slid her finger beneath the flap and drew out the neatly typed letter within.

Dear Sir or Madam,