A year later, the newly rebuilt Whispers & Pages threw its grand reopening party. The shelves glimmered with fresh wood, but Lena insisted the original poetry section's scars remain: the bullet holes, the water stains, and that faint outline of where Margaret's hidden diary had lived.
Ryan hung the new Local Authors sign while balancing on a ladder. Below him, holding the position of second parent, was their daughter-Maggie-who gurgled happily in her playpen. Sophie was also home, sprawled over the counter, tracking down the latest from Calloway Biotech's offshore arrests, her laptop set before her.
As the door swung open, a bell chimed, revealing a man in a navy peacoat whose face was lost in the glory of the noon sun outside.
"Heard you were into rare books," he said, thick with Marseille accent, laying a first-edition Moby Dick onto the counter. Inside, the pages hollowed for holding one vial of silver liquid labeled Phase Four.
Sophie's breath hitched.
Lena reached slowly for the fireplace poker.
Ryan's ladder stilled.
And little Maggie, with her bioluminescent eyes, began to laugh.
THE END
(For now.)