Dreams don’t die — they go quiet.
One year after Clara took over the quiet bookshop in Greystone Bay, whispers are beginning to rise again. A dreambook with no name. A letter from Lisbon. A tree blooming beneath a ghost moon. Something is stirring — not just in town, but beyond it.
As the dreamtree awakens, so do forgotten stories — Jonah’s lost melodies, Mae’s vanishing voice, a child who draws dreams before they arrive. When a mysterious traveler named Thalia arrives, cloaked in green silk and secrets, Clara realizes: some dreams weren’t meant to be opened. And some doors… were never meant to appear.
The Librarian of Lost Dreams: Volume II – The Tree That Whispered is a magical realism novel for readers of cozy fiction, women’s literary fiction, and bookshop stories with quiet fantasy roots. If you enjoy magical realism fiction, cozy fantasy books, or emotional women’s fiction, this heartwarming story of belief, memory, and healing will stay with you long after the final page.
Genre: FICTION / Small Town & RuralThis is the second volume of the series. While the first volume was a success, this one has no ranking, as it is new published
Prologue – The Keeper of Quiet Things
Clara Moore had resided in the quaint town of Greystone Bay for nearly two years, and it seemed the town had woven itself into the very fabric of her existence just as deeply.
The days now unfolded softly, like the delicate petals of a flower blooming at dawn — in the comforting ritual of cups of fragrant lavender tea poured before the first light of sunrise, in the gentle rustle of pages turned beneath sun-dappled glass, and in the rhythmic dance of her fingers as they dusted the spines of books that hadn't felt the warmth of a reader's touch in decades. The bookshop, a sanctuary filled with the rich scent of aged paper and whispers of stories past, had become her heartbeat, her breath. It was no longer merely a place of refuge; it had transformed into something profoundly intimate — a home not just for her physical being, but for the fragmented parts of her soul that had once withered away in the grip of grief and a haunting silence.
And yet, the very silence that cradled these moments had begun to shift and evolve.
It all began with a solitary book. A slender, pale volume that arrived not through the familiar dream-shelf but slipped silently through the mail slot, wrapped in twine and imbued with an essence of hope. There was no name to accompany it. No sender. Just a single pressed feather nestled within its pages and the alluring scent of clove wafting through the air.
Inside the book lay a dream that was foreign to her — one she had never encountered, never read, never truly felt — a vision of a girl poised at the edge of a burning bridge, cradling a violin that bore no strings. Clara didn’t recognize this peculiar memory; it didn’t belong to anyone she knew in town. She was certain of that.
So she made an unexpected choice.
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Portuguese
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Kaique Ribeiro Dos Santos
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