[ WP ] A girl approaches you asking for your help . You agree , to soon find out she needs your help because she is dead ( a ghost ) and you were the first one to be able to see her .

Taylor finished opening the storefront and put a sign on a pile of worn paperbacks,'5 for $ 1.' The store was in an up-and-coming part of town which was a polite way of saying, `` slum.'' She often wondered about the absentee owner and how long a used book store in a part of town not known for its high regard of old books could actually survive. Occasionally the owner would drop off a case of old first edition books and she would open those lonely pages, one of the little joys of her job, before locking them away in holding. Though the pay was minimal, the traffic was almost nil, and so she spent her eight hours reading quietly behind an increasingly dusty cash register. 
 
 
 She was engrossed in a particular novel when the unfamiliar door chimes jingled. Without looking, she tapped a printed list on the counter. `` Books in holding are here, fiction in the front aisle, non-fiction in the back. If you need help, just ask.'' She turned a page. She knew the distinctive creak of the floor boards just in front of the register, and when she did not hear them, she looked up. `` Can I help you?'' she asked. 
 
 
 In front of her was a woman dressed like a consignment shop mannequin. She wore a pale, wide sun hat and an airy white dress that the light behind her seemed to push through. Her eyes wide, her hand inching ever closer to an open mouth, she starred at Taylor. 
 
 
 Taylor shook her head and put her book down, `` Can I help you?'' she asked again, her eyebrows raised. She had seen the type before, people with more money than sense, buying up vintage clothes and vintage books, trying to revive an old era ideal that they were never part of. `` Fiction? Non-fiction?'' she asked more pointedly. The woman looked back at her confused. `` Title? Author?'' Taylor prodded. 
 
 
 The woman quivered, `` I-I'm,'' she hesitated, `` I'm looking for something that belongs to me.'' 
 
 
 Taylor softened, `` Oh.'' She got up to make her way around the counter. The woman startled and backed away. Taylor was taken by the flow and simple elegance of the woman's dress as it seemed to drift about her as she moved. For a moment, seeing that woman lit by an old desk lamp, backed by an old wooden case, filled with old leather bound books, Taylor felt that it was the woman who belonged here and that she was the one out of place. She caught herself starring and shook her head quickly, `` Do you know the name?'' 
 
 
 `` I know where it is,'' she replied, barely above a whisper. She turned and pointed to the locked cabinets. 
 
 
'How can you know that?' Taylor might have said, barely able to see through the slits in the old, ornate, glass doors. Instead she said, `` Okay.'' She pulled the key from the chain that looped down her leg and walked to straight to the spot the woman pointed at. She unlocked the doors and put a hand on a book. The woman seemed to wince. Taylor opened the cover and saw a written inscription,'To our darling daughter, Agatha Clover. May this keep you company as you convalesce,' followed by a short letter she felt too private to read. `` This one?'' 
 
 
 The woman nodded and held her hands outstretched as if a mother reaching out for her infant. Sunlight beamed through the woman's clothes. Her face shone with a mix of sadness and joy. `` Yes,'' she nearly gasped. `` That's the one. It's mine.'' Tears came that only made her glow. 
 
 
 Taylor felt the book become weightless as the woman took the worn tome from her. She turned to lock the case and said behind her, `` Since it's yours, I'll call the owner and see if I can get you a discount. He's a pretty cool guy. I'm sure he-'' She turned, and the woman was gone, leaving neither a floor creak, nor a door chime, nor the book that was hers.
