Opaline Greene lived a life measured in silences. Her tiny flat above the flower stall on Grafton Street held more ghosts than guests, and the books she restored for a living spoke more to her than people ever did. Paper and ink were her companions; foxed pages and gold-leaf lettering, her confidants.
It was a Tuesday when she saw the bookshop.
Wedged between a crumbling tailor’s and an abandoned music school, it leaned slightly, as though too tired to stand upright. There was no signage, no display window, only an iron-knobbed door and a brass mail slot engraved with the words: Whisper, if you must.
As she blinked, a wind rose from nowhere, carrying the scent of ink and rain. She turned to look again—and the shop had vanished, replaced by a blank brick wall.
