Chapter 239: The Last Customer

Adrian checked his phone the following morning.

There were no new messages.

The unknown number was still there, along with the two sentences that had arrived the previous evening. He had considered calling it before going to bed, but eventually decided against it.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to hear.

An explanation?

An apology?

Perhaps someone telling him that the messages had been sent to the wrong person.

That last possibility seemed increasingly unlikely.

"You’re staring at it again."

Adrian looked up.

Lena was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding two cups.

"I was checking the time."

"Your phone has a clock."

"Very observant."

She placed one cup beside him.

"Did they message again?"

"No."

"Good."

He looked at her.

"You’re not curious?"

"Of course I am. I’m just not curious enough to let a stranger ruin my breakfast."

Adrian smiled.

"Fair."

They ate together before Lena left for work. Adrian had planned to spend the morning fixing a loose cabinet hinge, but he found himself checking the phone every few minutes.

Eventually, he put it in a drawer.

The hinge needed fixing anyway.

---

Clara arrived at the old stationery shop shortly after two.

The building looked smaller than Adrian remembered from the photographs she had shown him. Its faded sign hung above the entrance, and dust covered the window from the inside.

A new notice had been placed beside the door.

PROPERTY AVAILABLE FOR LEASE.

Clara stood in front of it.

"I thought it might have been sold."

"Have you contacted the owner?"

"Yesterday. He said I could look around if I wanted. He’s planning to clear the place next week."

Adrian glanced at the notice.

"Then we should probably be quick."

Clara nodded.

She unlocked the door with a key the owner had given her.

The bell above it rang.

The sound was small and familiar, almost cheerful.

Inside, the shop was empty.

The shelves had been removed, leaving pale rectangles on the walls where they had stood for years. The counter remained, though its surface was scratched and covered in dust. A few cardboard boxes sat near the back.

Clara stepped inside slowly.

"I haven’t been here since I was a child."

Adrian closed the door behind them.

"Do you remember it?"

"Pieces."

She walked toward the counter.

"I remember sitting here while my mother worked. She used to give me scraps of paper to draw on."

"Did you draw?"

"Mostly terrible animals."

"How terrible?"

"One of them looked like a horse that had been stepped on."

Adrian laughed.

"Art is subjective."

"My mother said it was a very unusual dog."

They moved toward the back room.

There was a small door behind the counter. Clara opened it and found a narrow storage space filled with boxes.

"These weren’t here before."

"Probably left by the owner."

She examined the labels.

Most were ordinary. Old receipts, damaged stationery, packaging materials. Then she found one with a handwritten label.

MARGARET — PERSONAL.

Clara crouched.

"Adrian."

He came over.

The box was smaller than the others, but it looked older. The tape had yellowed, and the cardboard had softened around the edges.

"Should we open it?" he asked.

Clara nodded.

Inside were several photographs, a few notebooks, and a collection of small objects wrapped in tissue paper.

She carefully removed the first photograph.

It showed Margaret standing behind the counter, smiling at someone outside the frame.

Clara turned it over.

There was a date on the back.

And a name.

Thomas.

Her grandfather.

She stared at it for a while.

Then she placed it beside her.

The next photograph showed two people sitting at a small table. Margaret was one of them. The other was an older man with a serious expression and a familiar face.

Clara recognized him immediately.

"That’s him."

"Your grandfather?"

She nodded.

They were both holding cups of tea.

Neither was smiling.

Yet the way they sat across from each other suggested something Adrian couldn’t quite put into words.

They looked comfortable.

Clara turned the photograph over.

He stayed for forty minutes today. We didn’t argue once. I think that’s progress.

She laughed softly.

"Forty minutes."

"Apparently, it was an achievement."

"For them, probably."

She continued searching.

At the bottom of the box, beneath the notebooks, she found a small paper bird.

Its wings were uneven. One side was folded slightly higher than the other, and the beak was crooked.

Clara picked it up.

For a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Then she smiled.

"I remember this."

Adrian looked at the little bird.

"Your grandfather made it?"

"Apparently."

She turned it over.

A tiny message had been written beneath one wing.

For Clara. Keep flying.

Clara laughed, but her eyes were already wet.

"That’s so embarrassing."

"Why?"

"He couldn’t even fold it properly."

"Maybe he was trying to make it look realistic."

"You’re not helping."

Adrian smiled.

She placed the bird carefully beside the photograph.

There was one more item in the box.

A small envelope.

Unlike the one Margaret had written to Clara, this one was addressed to her grandfather.

Thomas Whitmore.

The date was written beneath it.

It was from the same year the photograph had been taken.

Clara opened it.

The letter was short.

Dad,

I know we don’t agree about everything. We probably never will.

But Clara asks about you.

She remembers the paper bird. She remembers the stories I tell her. She wants to know why you don’t visit more often.

I don’t know what to tell her.

I don’t want her growing up thinking that people who love each other should stay away just because they don’t know how to talk.

If you want to come by, the door is open.

Margaret.

Clara lowered the letter.

Adrian watched her.

"Did he come?"

She looked at the photograph again.

"Yes."

There was no question in her voice anymore.

He had come.

He had sat across from Margaret, drank tea, and stayed for forty minutes without arguing.

Perhaps that had been their way of making peace.

Not a grand apology. Not a dramatic reconciliation.

Just a visit.

A cup of tea.

An imperfect paper bird.

Clara carefully returned the letter to its envelope.

"I think I’ve found enough for today."

Adrian nodded.

They packed the objects back into the box.

But before closing it, Clara noticed a small notebook tucked beneath the photographs.

Its cover was plain and dark blue.

She opened it.

The first page contained a single sentence.

The last customer came today.

Clara frowned.

"That’s strange."

"What?"

She showed him.

"Do you know who she means?"

Adrian shook his head.

Clara turned the page.

There were several short entries, each with a date. Most described ordinary customers, but the final pages were different.

The handwriting became smaller.

More careful.

He came in just before closing. Didn’t buy anything.

Asked whether I remembered the old shop.

I told him I remembered every customer.

He said that wasn’t true.

Clara turned another page.

He knew my name. He knew about the notebooks. He asked whether I had kept the first one.

I told him I didn’t know what he meant.

The next entry had no date.

He said someone would come looking for the things I remembered.

Clara looked up.

"Who was this?"

Adrian read the page again.

"There’s no name?"

She shook her head.

"Not here."

The next page was blank except for a line written near the bottom.

He said he had met someone who remembered the beginning.

Adrian felt something tighten in his chest.

He looked at the handwriting.

It was Margaret’s.

There was no mistaking it.

Clara closed the notebook.

"That’s enough for today."

Adrian didn’t argue.

They carried the box outside and locked the door behind them.

---

They stopped at a small café around the corner.

Clara ordered tea, while Adrian settled for coffee.

For a while, she sat quietly, looking at the box beside her chair.

"Do you think my mother knew something was going to happen?" she asked.

"I don’t know."

"That last customer. He sounds strange."

"He does."

"Do you think it was someone important?"

Adrian stirred his coffee.

"Maybe he was just someone who came into the shop."

Clara gave him a look.

"That’s not a very satisfying answer."

"It’s the only honest one I have."

She smiled faintly.

"I suppose."

Her phone vibrated.

She checked it.

Then her expression softened.

"It’s Anna."

She answered the call.

They spoke for a few minutes. Anna asked whether Clara had found anything. Clara told her about the photograph and the paper bird.

When the call ended, she placed her phone on the table.

"Michael wants to see the photographs."

"That’s nice."

"He said he might remember something."

Adrian nodded.

Clara looked at him.

"Thank you for coming with me."

"You’ve thanked me several times."

"I know."

"Then I’ll accept it."

She smiled.

They finished their drinks and went their separate ways.

---

Adrian was halfway home when his phone rang.

Unknown number.

He stopped near the pavement.

For several seconds, he simply watched the screen.

Then he answered.

"Hello?"

There was a quiet rustling sound.

Someone breathing.

Then a woman’s voice.

"Adrian?"

He didn’t recognize it.

"Who is this?"

"My name is Elise."

He waited.

"I knew Margaret."

Adrian looked toward the road.

"From the stationery shop?"

"Yes. I was one of her customers."

"How did you get my number?"

"I was given it."

"By whom?"

A pause.

"Jonas."

Adrian straightened.

"What do you want?"

"I think you should know something about the last customer."

He glanced at the notebook in his bag.

"What about him?"

Elise was quiet for a moment.

"Margaret didn’t meet him just once."

Adrian said nothing.

"He came back several times. Always near closing. He never bought anything, and he never gave her a name."

"Do you know who he was?"

"No."

"Then what do you know?"

Another pause.

"She was afraid of him."

Adrian looked down the street.

"Did she tell you that?"

"Not directly. But I saw her after one of his visits. She locked the door and sat behind the counter for nearly an hour. She looked like she’d seen a ghost."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I found something she left with me."

"What?"

"A photograph."

Adrian waited.

"There’s a man standing outside the shop. I think it’s him."

"Can you send it to me?"

"I can. But there’s something else."

"What?"

Elise lowered her voice.

"He’s standing beside another person."

"Who?"

"I don’t know."

She hesitated.

"But the other person looks exactly like you."

The street seemed to grow quieter.

Adrian didn’t move.

"Send me the photograph," he said.

"I will."

The call ended.

He remained on the pavement, phone pressed against his ear.

A few seconds later, a message arrived.

An image attachment.

He opened it.

The photograph was old and slightly blurred. Margaret stood outside her stationery shop, smiling at the camera.

Beside her was a man whose face was partly hidden by the angle.

And next to him stood another figure.

A man in a dark coat.

Adrian stared at the photograph.

The man’s face was unmistakable.

It was his own.

Not Aeris.

Not another version of him.

Adrian Cross.

He zoomed in.

The figure was looking directly at the camera.

On the back of the photograph, Elise had written a message.

Margaret said he came looking for you before you were born.

Adrian lowered the phone.

For a long moment, he couldn’t hear the traffic.

Then another message appeared.

She also said you weren’t supposed to remember him.

Adrian looked at the photograph again.

He had spent years trying to understand the beginning.

Now someone had found a way to bring it to his doorstep.

And this time, the past had a face.