Silent Pages: A Hidden Message Reveals a Forgotten Secret

Clara Mercer had always found solace in the quiet corners of Willow brook Library. As its head librarian, she knew every creak in the wooden floors, every sunlit patch on the reading tables, and every secret hiding spot for the rarest books. But nothing in her 15 years there had prepared her for the day she found the letter tucked inside a weathered copy of Wuthering Heights.

The book had been donated anonymously,

left in the drop-off bin with a sticky note that read for the archives. Clara had nearly dismissed it as another discard until she flipped to page 117. There, folded into a tight square, was a handwritten note stained with age. Her breath hitched as she recognized the looping script Emily’s script. Her sister Emily, who had vanished without a trace seven years ago.

Clara If you’re reading this, I’m still alive

They took me, but I’m close. Find the man with the crow tattoo. He knows where I am. Don’t trust anyone. E

The words blurred as tears welled in Clara’s eyes. For years, she’d clung to the hope that Emily, her vibrant, reckless younger sister, might still be out there. The police had labeled it a runaway case, but Clara had never believed it. Emily wouldn’t have left her. Not like this.

The note’s mention of a crow tattoo sent Clara digging through old police files late into the night. She found a match in a mugshot from a decade prior: Marcus Blackwell, a petty thief with a blackbird inked on his neck. His last known address? A crumbling Victorian house on the outskirts of town. The next evening, Clara stood at Blackwell’s doorstep, her hands trembling as she knocked. The door creaked open to reveal a gaunt man in his 60s, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her. Yeah?

I’m looking for Emily Mercer she said,

voice steadier than she felt. I think you know where she is.

Blackwell’s face paled. He tried to slam the door, but Clara wedged her foot in the gap. Please she pleaded. She’s, my sister.

A beat passed. Then, with a resigned sigh, he let her in. The house reeked of mildew and regret. Blackwell led her to a dimly lit study, its walls lined with first editions too rare for a man of his means. She's here he muttered, nodding to a door at the back. “But you won’t like what you find

Clara’s heart raced as she turned the knob. The room was empty save for a desk, a lamp, and a woman with auburn hair bent over a stack of books. She turned, and Clara gasped. Emily. Older, sharper, but undeniably her.

Clara, Emily said, smiling. Took you long enough.

For a moment, joy overwhelmed reason.

Clara rushed forward, but Emily held up a hand. Stop. You shouldn’t have come.

What I don’t understand. The note said you were in danger!

Emily’s laugh was cold. Danger? Oh, Clara. Always the hero. She gestured to the books. “This was never about me. It’s about them. First editions. Signed Hemmingway's. A Brontë manuscript worth millions. Blackwell and I have been collecting them.”

Clara’s stomach dropped. You faked your disappearance? For *theft?