It's in one of them: one of these, along this wall. I wish I could remember the color, the width, the first letter of the author's name, anything. Anything.
Mama read it to me, when I was little, this story set in this place she loved so well, this hamlet with the little cottages and the fishing pier and the band gazebo and the mom-and-pop grocer. She'd close the book at the end and sigh and say, "I'm going to live there someday. Just you wait."
She's there now. She's fine. They don't know what I know. She's not dead.