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In the dim glow of an old brass lamp, the ghost of Arthur Whitmore drifted through the aisles of Whitmore & Sons Rare Books, his translucent fingers tracing the spines of forgotten tomes. Once the devoted owner, he remained long after his death, ensuring no book went unread, no story left untold. On quiet nights, the scent of aged parchment filled the air as pages rustled without wind, and lost customers found themselves inexplicably drawn to the exact book they needed. Those who lingered too long sometimes glimpsed him—a faint shimmer in the dust motes, a whisper of turning pages—before the shop bell chimed, though no one had entered or left.