Orlando stepped into The Whispering Pages, a bookshop hidden in a narrow alley where the air smells like old paper, cinnamon, and rain. The bell above the door chimed his name as he entered, bringing him to a complete stop. Looking up at the bell, he marveled for the thousandth time at the wonders of magic.

Sunlight slanted through stained-glass windows, painting rainbows across towering shelves that seemed to rearrange themselves when he blinked. Books floated gently like sleepy butterflies. A plump ginger cat named Poe napped atop a grimoire, purring in lyrical rhythm.

As he browsed, a small leather-bound book tumbled from the highest shelf and landed at his feet. Its title glowed faintly: The Unwritten Chapter. When he opened it, the pages were blank. That is, they were blank until ink began to swirl like spilled tea, forming words:

“Dear Orlando, our beloved Inkwell is leaking. Stories are flooding the basement. Please help us before the endings drown!”

Suddenly, Poe leapt down and nudged his ankle, leading him toward a trapdoor behind a tapestry of dragons.

Orlando darted after Poe’s ginger tail, snatching the quill, called Quilliam, off the counter as he passed. The quill yelped, “Oi! Warn a fellow before—”
“No time!” he shouted, racing toward the tapestry. Behind it, in a tiny dark room, a mossy trapdoor groaned open.

Downstairs, ankle-deep in liquid ink, he gasped: Sherlock Holmes was rowing a dictionary boat, shouting deductions at a sobbing Alice, who had shrunk to three inches tall. Moby Dick was swirling in a whirlpool of commas. The “Cookie Book” floated past, flinging warm peanut butter cookies like tiny life rafts. “Eat morale! The cookies can help you!” it chirped.

“Please!” Orlando called up the stairs, ink soaking his shoes. “We need help!”
Agnes, the Librarian, a tiny, wrinkled old woman with eyes like folded maps appeared at the trapdoor, her shawl billowing like storm clouds. “Lord have mercy, Inkwell is leaking!” She gingerly descended the stairs, stepping lightly on the floating letters.

Agnes knelt, pressing a palm to the inky floor. “The heart is close. But only a Reader can mend him.” She turned to Orlando and handed him an umbrella that turns metaphors into shields and whispered, “Find Inkwell’s heart! It’s hidden in a sonnet.

“Quilliam! Write what she speaks!” he commanded.
The quill grumbled but hovered eagerly.

Agnes chanted:

“Seek the core where stanzas part,
Where iamb’s pulse meets metaphor’s art.
A key of rhyme, twice spun—
Then seal the Well ere ink’s undone!”

Poe yowled, leaping onto a wobbling bookshelf. He batted a dusty volume titled “Shakespeare’s Sonnets” off the shelf. It splashed open, glowing gold.

Inside, a tiny marble Inkwell pulsed like a heart, cracked down the middle. Ink gushing from the fracture.

Moby Dick struggled valiantly against the eddying commas as Holmes’ book slowly absorbed ink, threatening to engulf Alice.

Quilliam trembled in Orlando’s hand. “Quick, Quilliam! Write a seal! But it has to be a wild metaphor. They’re unpredictable sometimes but, they’re very powerful. Do it now!”

Orlando glanced at Quilliam who had yet to begin writing. “Write! Now!”

The quill was staring at the ink-stained lock of Orlando’s white hair. The shouted order jolted him into movement. He stabbed the air, ink flaring like a comet’s tail as he scrawled:

“A story unloved is a star without sky, till a reader returns it to light.”

The words blazed gold. Poe nudged the cookie book toward him and it launched one last peanut butter cookie. Plop! It landed directly into Inkwell’s cracked heart. The ink… hesitated.

Silence. Orlando blinked, “What the…?”

The gushing ink froze in mid-air, then slowly sank backward into the Well like a receding tide. The crack sealed over, smooth as glass. Orlando heaved a sigh of relief.

But, the cellar? It was still a swamp of stories. Ink dripped from Moby Dick’s flukes. Alice, now six inches tall, wrung out her apron. Holmes’ book-boat was waterlogged, sagging under the inky weight, threatening to drown Alice.

Agnes clapped her hands. “Well done, Orlando! But every flood leaves mud… and magic.”
She raised her umbrella (metaphors into shields) and whispered:

“Let unwritten sorrow fade,
Page by page, the mess unmade!”

The ink lifted off the books like steam, rising into shimmering constellations that dissolved into the ceiling. Stains rewound themselves; waterlogged pages dried.

But not all damage was physical. Moby Dick’s commas still swam weakly around his tail. Holmes’ logic was smudged (“Elementary, my dear Watso-“ he grumbled. And Alice couldn’t seem to grow more than knee high!

The little cookie book fluttered onto Orlando’s shoulder, chirping:

“Eat morale! Sweetness mends the soul!
Bake the ink into something whole!”

So, Orlando rallied the troops. Poe herded runaway letters into piles as Orlando and Quilliam rewrote torn pages. Of course, Quilliam insisted on adding little flourishes here and there. Agnes brewed potions of lemon and lightning to scour the book covers and the Cookie Book unleashed a storm of warm peanut butter cookies.

Alice caught a cookie and ate it. Suddenly, she shot up to full-size! Holmes nibbled one in a corner and his deductions sharpened. Moby Dick swallowed seven! The commas leapt obediently into line.

By dusk, the cellar gleamed. Stories slept soundly on shelves. The Inkwell glowed, warm and whole.

Agnes handed Orlando a cookie wrapped in parchment. “For our Last Reader. Come back often. Every page you turn heals a crack in the world.”

As he left, Poe purred at his feet, the Cookie Book was tucked under his arm (still dropping crumbs), and Quilliam was tucked behind his ear like a pencil.

The bell chimed. Outside, the alley glittered with newly written stars.

And somewhere, deep in the bookshop’s heart, the Inkwell beat stronger.

Epilogue
The Whispering Pages became a sanctuary for lonely stories and hungry readers alike. And yes—Orlando visited every Tuesday, with pockets full of cookies for Poe. The ink in his hair? It never did wash out… but in the sunlight, it shimmered like poetry. 

And, you just know I can’t neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.