The Midnight Gallery was not a museum; it was a sanctuary of "lost things." The air smelled of rain and old paper. Inside, a man with ink-stained fingers and a crooked tie looked up from a desk. "You’re late," he said, not unkindly.
Being a "nice girl," Lucy didn’t open the journal. She spent three hours researching the address. She discovered that Wickham Lane had been a hidden alleyway behind the old clock tower, sealed off since the 1920s. Against every logical instinct she possessed, Lucy didn’t call the post office. She took the brass key and walked toward the clock tower. A Nice Girl Like You
Lucy laughed, the sound brittle in the quiet room. "I don’t do 'versions.' I do spreadsheets. I’m a nice, predictable girl." The Midnight Gallery was not a museum; it
She found the entrance behind a rusted iron gate obscured by ivy. The key turned with a click that felt like a heartbeat. Being a "nice girl," Lucy didn’t open the journal