Echoes of the Forgotten

CHAPTER 2:Through the Rabbit Hole

Bloomsbury had a crispness in the morning air, a kind of bite that was usually welcomed by Clara, but today it only increased her restlessness. Note in his pocket - many times and many times the edges were left again - as much as it should be done, such as it is not only the word but the weight of expectation. She threw her hands into her coat to remove the cold, her breath appears in a small, nervous puff because she reached the timeless treasure, the bookstore mentioned in the online forum.

It was easy to remember the shop. Sandwich between a cafe with another hand clothing shop and peeling signage, it barely took a look from passers -by. The front was modest-a faded green door with a brass handle, a window performance of dust filled tombs was uncertainly stacked, and a simple hand painted indication above the entrance. But there was something about it that attracted Clara, a cool magnetism that whispered with mysteries was exposed.

He opened the door, and the voice above a bell announced his arrival. The smell hit him immediately - he could not do quite a rich mixture of aged paper, polished wood, and some flowers. The interior was slowly burnt, reaching the point of bursting with huge shelves. Books were everywhere, not only on the shelves, but also on the floor, the counter, and even in the stack on a serious ladder against the distant wall. It was both chaotic and comfortable, the kind of place that invited you to lose yourself for hours.

Behind the counter, an elderly man sat on a bookkeeping, he would meet his white hair on the loneline. His glasses fleely participated at the tip of his nose as he scored with a quil pen - a keen option in the era with laptops and smartphones. When entered Clara, he did not see, but his voice, deep and gravel, still congratulated him.

"Welcome to the timeless treasure," he said. "Take your time. Here every book has a s********e more than one."

Clara hesitated for a moment, then approached the counter. "Mr. Thorn?"

The man finally saw, his sharp blue eyes were surprised at the rims of his glasses. "That will be me. And who can you be?"

"I am Clara Gray," he said, extending one hand. "I am a journalist."

Mr. Thorne ignored the hand but gave a small indication to the acknowledgment. "A journalist, Eh? What does you bring to my humble shop? Looking for a title between pages?"

"In the way of speaking," Clara replied, withdrawn her hand. "I am researching a story about Isla Durham. I have heard that her diary can pass through here."

On the mention of Isla Durham, the expression of Mr. Thorne changed. Jovial curiosity faded, which was guarded, almost careful. He set his quill and bowed back to his chair, twisting his arms across his chest.

"Isla Durham," he repeated, such as tasting the name. "Now there is a name that I have not heard in a long time. And what do you think his diary will be here?"

Clara chose her words carefully. "I got some information online that mentions your shop. It was suggested that his diary could be at some point. I was hoping that you could confirm it."

Mr. Thorn was silent for a moment, his gaze was fixed on Clara as if trying to read his intentions. Finally, he ripped and rubbed his temples.

He said, "You are not the first to look for that diary." "And you will not be final."

"So this is - or was - the same?" Clara pressed her heart.

"Years ago," Mr. Thorn accepted. "It was part of a collection I achieved from an estate sales. An attractive piece, but also ... disturbing. It attracted a lot of attention, wrong kind of attention."

"what do you mean?" Clara asked, her curiosity was paired.

"I mean those who seek that diary often find more and more, because they bargain," said Mr. Thorn. "Some stories are left better, Miss Gray."

Clara emphasized the suggestion. "I am a journalist. It is my job to highlight stories, no matter how dangerous or uncomfortable they are."

Mr. Thorn studied him for a long time before shaking his head. "It's quite appropriate. But I am afraid that the diary is no longer here. It was sold to a collector - a peculiar partner. I don't know his real name, only his surname: The archivist."

"Archives?" Clara repeated, her mind was running. "Who is that? Where can I find him?"

"I don't know much," Mr. Thorn said. "He is a disinterest, deal in rare artifacts and documents, always through mediators. But I have their contact information ... somewhere."

He stood up and reshuffled the rear room, leaving Clara alone with his thoughts. Radical. Even the name seemed inauspicious. But this was the first solid leadership, and she was not about letting it slip through her fingers.

Mr. Thorn returned a few minutes later with a small, experienced notebook. He flipped through the pages before taking out a slip of paper with a address scattered over it.

"This is where his last mediated," he said, handing him the paper. "But I warn you, Miss Gray: Walk carefully. The radicals are not kind for the guests called."

Clara thanked him and left the shop, the address was burning a hole in his pocket. His next step was clear: he had to find the archives, no matter the risk. But when she went on a quiet road, she settled on her. She could not feel that she was seen.

He looked at his shoulder, but did not see anything out of the ordinary - just a man out of the cafe in a trench coat, pushing a stroller, a bicycle, adjusting his helmet. And yet, the sensation remained, a prick behind his neck that refused to go away.

Clara accelerated her speed, her heart became faster. She turned into a corner, then trying to lose another, invisible shade that seemed behind her. By the time she reached her apartment, she was more nervous, her veins taunted. He cut the door behind and drowned on the floor, grabbing a paper slip like a lifeline.

His tendency told him that the diary was just the beginning. Whatever secrets that Isla Durham hid within his pages was powerful and possibly dangerous -enough dangerous to draw attention to the person. Clara knew that she was stepping into a mine area, but the story was forcing him to do a lot.

As soon as she sat there, holding her breath, her phone was echoing with a new message. He unlocked it to find a lesson from an unknown number:

*"Stop looking for a diary. You don't know what you are doing yourself."*