Coventry · Est. by hand
Still haunting… until adopted.
Small ghosts, made by hand. Each with a name they answer to, a few peculiar habits, and a story that won't quite stay buried. They are waiting for somewhere to belong.
✦ Begin the story
Chapter One
The door that sighs after dusk
At the end of a cobbled lane, beneath the Coventry spire, a little iron sign hangs over a door. By day, it is only a door. After dusk, there is sometimes a rustle on the other side. Then a cough. A very small, very deliberate cough, from someone who has been waiting to be noticed.
Nobody remembers leaving the latch undone. It always is.
Chapter Two
Clay first. Character follows.
Every soul begins as clay on the workbench, moulded, painted and finished by hand. A crooked hem. A stripe. A hat at a rather particular angle. Somewhere between the first brushstroke and the last, a small character begins to make itself known.
None of them are perfect. That is rather the point. A soul with no crooked hem has nothing to talk about at midnight. No two come out alike. One looks as though it has a secret. Another looks as though it knows yours. We let them dry before asking.
Chapter Three
Things they tell us after dark
We keep a file for each of them. Where they were found. What they cherish. What they absolutely will not forgive. The stories come slowly, usually when the room is quiet and the lamp is the only thing still awake. We write down what we can. Some details they keep to themselves.
Chapter Four
Nothing leaves without a name
A name, a profile, a digital certificate, a box. Even the lost deserve to be accounted for.
A Name
Listen long enough and they whisper it. We write it down before they change their mind.
A Profile
A record of peculiar habits, small grudges and favoured corners. Best read before you leave them alone with the books.
A Digital Certificate
Numbered: a record that this particular soul has found a home. Keep it somewhere the drawers don't stick.
A Box
Their own little shelter for the journey. Open it gently. They may have grown rather fond of the dark.
Epilogue
Perhaps there is a space between your books. A windowsill that goes cold at dusk. A corner you always glance at on your way to bed. Leave a little room. A lost soul does not need much. Only somewhere to stop being lost.