Brady Top stood behind the counter like he always did: 60 or so, hair silvered at the temple, suspenders crossing a flannel shirt. He had the look of someone who’d been born in the shop and never quite left. He peered up with an amused half-smile. “You again,” he said. “You found your way out of the storm?”
Yasmina’s throat tightened. The handwriting on the back read: For the ones who listen. Keep the light true. yasmina khan brady top