Chapter 1: The Desk That Shouldn’t Exist

Penny Carter didn't believe in fate, but she did believe in bad decisions—especially the kind that started with the words "I probably shouldn't, but…"

And this was one of them.

The antique shop wasn't even on her list of places to go that day. She had been on her way to get coffee, distracted, scrolling through emails, when a gust of wind—too strong for a calm afternoon—ripped a flyer from a telephone pole and slapped it right against her chest.

"OLIVER'S CURIOSITIES: WHERE THE PAST FINDS YOU."

That should have been her first clue.

The bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside. The scent of old books, varnish, and something vaguely metallic curled around her like ghostly fingers. Dim lighting flickered in unreliable intervals, revealing shelves upon shelves of forgotten things—porcelain dolls with cracked faces, rusted keys without locks, clocks with hands that never moved.

And in the very back, hidden between a gramophone and a headless mannequin, was the desk.

It was nothing special at first glance—just a weathered oak writing desk with intricate carvings along the edges. The wood was scuffed, the drawers slightly misaligned, but something about it called to her. It felt familiar in a way that made no sense. Like a song she had forgotten the lyrics to but still hummed in the back of her mind.

"You have a good eye," came a voice from behind her.

Penny nearly jumped out of her skin.

She turned to find the shopkeeper watching her with an amused expression. He was an older man, wiry and hunched, with eyes far too sharp for someone who dealt in dusty relics. His name tag—if it could be called that—was an old, tarnished pocket watch pinned to his vest, its hands frozen at exactly 3:17.

She hadn't even heard him approach.

"Not many people notice that desk," he continued, running a hand along the worn surface like an old friend. "It's been here for a long time."

"How much?" Penny asked, the words leaving her mouth before she had even decided she wanted it.

The old man studied her for a long moment, as if measuring something she couldn't see. Then, with the slowest of nods, he said, "For you? Fifty bucks."

That should have been her second clue.

A desk like this—solid wood, handcrafted—should have been worth hundreds. Maybe thousands. But fifty? It was practically being given to her.

Penny hesitated, but only for a second.

"Deal."

The transaction was over in minutes. No receipt. No paperwork. Just her, lugging the absurdly heavy desk toward the door while the shopkeeper watched, that knowing smile never leaving his face.

As she reached the threshold, he called out, "Be careful with that one, Miss Carter."

She froze.

She hadn't told him her name.

Her fingers tightened around the desk's edge, but when she turned back, the shopkeeper was gone—vanished into the labyrinth of antiques like he had never been there at all.

That should have been her third clue.

But Penny, ever the skeptic, shook off the eerie feeling and pushed forward. The desk was hers now. Whatever secrets it held, whatever strange history it carried, she would uncover them soon enough.

If only she had known.

Because later that night, when she pried open the stubborn top drawer, she would find them—the letters.

And nothing in her life would ever be the same again.