“Dorothy’s a regular,” said Grandy. He indicated the writing pad. “Blythe and I have been working on the story of the bookstore, and we must remember to mention how important our young customers are.”

Natalie felt a sinking sense of guilt. She was going to have to spoil the ending of that story. Soon, probably.

Dorothy held up her bag. “I got two books today.”

“Lucky you. And look what I found.” He rummaged in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a handful of round glass-topped typewriter keys.

She peered at them. “Cool.”

“Here, take the D and the G—your initials.”

Natalie was encouraged that Grandy had recognized the kid, even knew her initials. Her mom had said the dementia seemed to ebb and flow, unpredictable and arbitrary. Today might be a good day. She hoped it was.

“Really? Thanks!”

“I have plenty left over from my old typewriter shop,” Grandy told her. “That’s what this place was before it was a bookshop. I thought it would always be a typewriter shop, but the business went into decline. That means it was failing because of the modern world.”

“Good thing you turned it into a bookstore,” Dorothy said.

He nodded. “Blythe and I started it with a treasure we discovered in the basement—a box of antique books. And that was how the Lost and Found Bookshop got its start.” His brow furrowed. “The business is in trouble again because of the modern world. People are watching nonsense on their phones and ordering books online. If that keeps up, places like this might cease to exist.”

Apparently, he did have some understanding of the difficulties her mother had been having.

Dorothy’s face drained of color. “No,” she said. “Bookstores are magic.”

“I must write that down.” Grandy shuffled to the small desk behind the counter. “We can all use a bit of magic. Enjoy those books, young lady.”

“I will.”

“Is someone picking you up?” Natalie asked her. “Your mom, or …?”

“I have to walk to my mom’s office on the corner. She works at Century Financial Services.”

“All right. I hope you come back soon.”

“Okeydokey. Bye!” The girl left with a spring in her step.

After she was gone, a quiet air settled over the shop. It was not a welcome quiet. Natalie wanted a bustle of readers coming and going. Things picked up around midday, starting with a panhandler who shuffled in with a tattered backpack and layers of unwashed clothes. He helped himself to a cookie from the café area, and Natalie didn’t say anything. Then, to her surprise, he bought a used copy of Bastard Out of Carolina, meticulously counting out his cash from a threadbare billfold.

Several regular customers dropped by to offer condolences. A couple of them bought books.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said one woman, selecting a vegan cookbook. “The bookstore won’t be the same without Blythe.”