Dust.

Iris Thorne wiped her hand over the donated book, the grit clinging to her skin like sandpaper. Outside, the wind hammered the glass, trying to force its way in, but Iris was elsewhere—lost in the slow-motion realization of the sheer time dust requires to claim a thing. Receiving such a relic felt like gazing into an antique mirror. She rubbed the cover again, as if summoning a spirit from a lamp, and a fine grey puff caught her nose.

​"Ah-choo!" Under the disturbed veil, a tainted gold-leaf title emerged: The Murder of Crows.

​Unthinking, she wiped her hand onto her black skirt. The insidious gatherer of time imprinted itself on the fabric while her mind remained snagged on the title. A little dark, she thought. Her curiosity deepened as she noted the author: John Thompson Jnr. The name hummed with a vague familiarity. She peeled the back cover away from the book beneath it; the tattered corners gave way to reveal a faded photo of a young man with a blunt Beatles-style haircut.

​The book was in good condition. Iris smirked, mentally counting the dollars. A debut? Hmm, 1967! This could be worth a mint. This time, she scrutinized the author's photo. He wore a crisp white business shirt, though a single upward-twisted collar tip betrayed his amateur status. She studied the background—an outdoor chair and fine china set against the manicured, distant hedgerows of Europe. He looked far too broke to afford such elegance. Did a wealthy lover take that photo? she wondered. A rockstar? Or a member of a starving writer’s group?

​A crow arched past the window, its shadow flickering over Iris’s head like a physical nudge. Her eyes dropped to her hip. The grey smear of her own handprint on the black fabric was ugly. She stared, transfixed, the thought of a baby wipe trailing off unfinished.

​The crow called again—a rattling, insistent sound that coincided with the town clock striking five. Iris only caught the final chime. Her head tilted, ear held high as if tuning into a frequency just out of reach.

​She blinked, startled. "Home time," she whispered. She slipped the book onto the pile and dusted her hands. Only two patrons remained, drifting like Victorian ghosts between the stacks. She reached for the microphone, her voice crackling thin and sharp through the old loudspeakers.

​"The Jester Secondhand Bookstore is now closed," she announced, her tone accusatory, as if they were to blame for her time slip. "However... your time has been extended by ten minutes. Please make your way to the counter at once."

​By 5:15 PM, the customers gone and the front door was locked. Inside, Iris donned her heavy jacket, swiveled her scarf into place, and checked her bag for her phone and keys. On a sudden impulse, she fished a square of calico from a staff drawer, wrapped the Thompson book in it, and tucked it deep into her bag. She glanced at the clock: 5:20 PM.

​"Damn." She’d just miss her bus.

Outside, ​the weather she had ignored found her. A sharp, Saturnian wind whistled through her marrow. Seeking the meager shelter of the bus stop, she reached into her bag to check the book, but a spray of rain fell against the calico. She hissed and tucked it away, hugging the bag to her chest like a secret.

​Later, a mug of hot chocolate steamed on her bedside table. Iris felt the heavy, comforting anchor of her cat, Buffy, against her thigh. With the dust cleared, the book's cover art was no longer a blur; a cluster of sullen crows stared out from a tangled forest, silhouetted beneath a small, cold moon.

​The first page resisted her touch, the paper stiff and heavy. In the margin, a note in fading ink read: John honey, my dearest Flipper—I knew you could do it! Love always, Peter your guitar man.

​Iris’s eyebrows shot up. Peter the guitar man? She reached for her phone and searched: "John Thompson Jnr writer."

​The facts tumbled out: Born 1947, died December 21, 2025. He was a Suffolk boy whose grandmother’s inheritance had funded his travels. At a party, he had met Peter D’Angelo, lead guitarist of The Pink Aristocrats. There were rumors and speculation of a relationship between the two, but nothing substantiated.

​"Bingo! I will need the handwriting verified," Iris whispered. John had been the hidden hand behind the band’s surrealist lyrics, writing the two hit singles "Checkered Ears" and "Honey Hearts" from their bestselling album Foxes and Hats, as well as a writer for beloved sitcoms like Cabbages and Kings and Muddy Waters.

​Then, her thumb froze. A final note mentioned he had moved to Australia late in life for a "weak chest." Iris’s breath hitched. He had lived right here, in Ipswich.

​A fragile mix of nervousness and excitement swelled in Iris as she tapped the image gallery. Recent photos appeared. The man’s eyes were clearer and more piercing than in the grainy book photo. Those eyes made her skin prickle with an uneasy recognition. She thought of the man who had donated the box of books three days ago. He had been tall, his hair thinned and grey. He had smiled and simply said, "Thank you."

​Iris pulled up the shop’s digital intake log. The entry read: John Flipper donation.

​The blood drained from her face, she couldn't rememberwriting his name. Flipper. She looked back at the phone screen, where a quote of Thompson's final essay was highlighted next to his portrait:

​"I just want ten more minutes of life... The term 'murder of crows' is a bit of mirth, much like the 'charity of ravens.' Crows appear at a murder? Ravens have no charity; they are scavengers. We use these names to create distance from death. We want to sanitise death or make it appear foolish. But Hindus might remind us to remember death so we live life fuller, be happier, do good and gather wisdom because death is powerful it bears the sting has a thousand scorpions."

​With trembling fingers, Iris opened the shop’s security app. She scrolled back to the donation date. The footage was clear. The shop door swung open. She saw herself behind the counter, smiling at a tall, grey-haired man. She zoomed in. The face, those piercing eyes—it was an exact match.

​Iris stared at the date on the security footage: January 14, 2026.

Then she looked at the obituary on her phone: Died: December 21, 2025.

​How could she prove that was him? The man on her screen had been dead for three weeks when he walked into her shop and handed her those books. Could the footage date be changed? Who could help her with this problem? And most of all, who could be trusted?