THE BOOK THAT FINISHED US

The book arrived without a title, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string the color of dried leaves. It was addressed to my shop, The Last Page, in handwriting I had not seen since my brother Milo died.

I had been a bookseller for most of my life and had learned that no two readers met the same story. This book seemed to disagree.

On its first page was the day I had been born. On its second, the day I first met Milo. On the third, a sentence that had not happened yet: TOMORROW YOU WILL CLOSE THE SHOP FOREVER.

The final page contained only my name, written in black ink that was still wet.

I could read ahead, or I could hide the book before it learned anything more about me.