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It was a cozy autumn afternoon. April Miller and Jackson were having a treat: she was drinking a pumpkin spice latte, courtesy of the next-door coffee shop, and he was biting down a catnip stick. In no time, Jackson would be rolling on the floor, enjoying his high. 

There was nothing to do. No customers had visited the shop that day, except for a sweet lady who usually came to ask for whichever romance book was trending. Her name was Maribeth. She lived just a few blocks from the bookstore, in a building that was always one bad day from crumbling down. Surprisingly, it never did. 

Maribeth was a widow. Her husband had died a long time ago before April was even born. At first, when she came into the bookshop asking for her books, she would do so quietly. She was shy, almost mute at times, except for when she pronounced the title of the treasure she was after that day. As days passed, she became more of an extrovert. She started yapping about all sorts of things, including her late husband and the lilies he used to give her every year on their anniversary. 

Sometimes, when Maribeth was there, April could smell the flowers. The whole store would be filled with the scent of lilies, up until the last corner. She had never seen Byron, the dead husband, but she had felt his presence once and again. He was always by Maribeth's side, waiting patiently until she joined him. There was no rush to do so; as a matter of fact, he would prefer if she took all the time in the world before passing away and coming to meet him. She deserved a long and happy life. 

But now Maribeth wasn't there, nor was the sweet smell of lilies. Instead, there was a soft cold breeze that came out of nowhere. A gust of wind blew over Jackson's long hair, twirling around the store, making an open book's pages turn. Right at that moment, April's cell phone started ringing.  The screen claimed it was an unknown number with the area code of Memphis, Tennessee.