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PROLOGUE

*

SEPTEMBER 7, 1940

The world was ending in whistles and thunder.

Will Donovan braced his palm against the damp stone wall of The Red Lion’s cellar, feeling the vibrations of another explosion somewhere to the east. His pulse raced in frantic rhythm, each beat threatening to burst from his chest. Nineteen years old. Was this all he’d get?

Dust cascaded from the ceiling, coating his hair, his eyelashes, the back of his throat. The single light bulb overhead spasmed and blinked, threatening to abandon him to darkness. Not that it mattered much. The main staircase had already collapsed in a mountain of brick and timber, sealing off his most obvious escape.

“Someone will come looking,” he whispered, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

He should have gone with Mr. Hale when the sirens first wailed. Should have dropped the inventory list and run straight for the shelter two streets over. Instead, he’d called up some rubbish about securing the good scotch—a feeble attempt at bravery that might cost him everything.

Another bomb fell, closer this time. The building shuddered, bottles clinking and crashing. Several smashed to the floor, the sound of shattering glass lost beneath the thunderous roar that followed. Will stumbled, catching himself against a wine rack, splinters digging into his palm.

“Please,” he choked out, not sure who he was begging. “Please, not like this.”

His torch beam cut weakly through the thickening dust as he turned in a slow circle, desperate for any path out. That’s when he saw it—an outline in the far wall that hadn’t been there before. Not quite a door, more like a narrow panel, partly obscured by shelves. Heart hammering, he stumbled toward it, coughing as the dust thickened around him.

He pressed on the panel. It gave way with a creak, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for his shoulders. He ducked inside.

The air shifted immediately. The little room beyond was oddly still, tucked like a secret between the outer walls. Shelves lined the space, stacked with dusty wine bottles and delicate glasses—like something out of the old temperance tales Mr. Hale used to talk about. A hidden stockroom, untouched for decades.

Hope sparked in his chest. This felt safer. Stronger. Maybe he could ride it out here.

He turned to wedge the door open—but the panel was closed.

No seam. No latch. No way to pry it back.

Panic surged in his throat. He ran his hands over the wall, searching for some kind of mechanism, some trick to reopen it. Nothing. The passage had sealed behind him as silently as it had opened.

Trapped. Truly trapped.

Will gasped for air, each breath a struggle. He dropped his torch, the beam spinning wildly before landing on a corner shelf stacked with cobwebbed bottles and tarnished bar tools. The shadows jumped, stretching across the walls like reaching hands.

The room creaked above him. Groaned. He backed into the tightest corner, near an old iron wine stand. It wasn’t much—but it was all he had.

He pulled his knees to his chest, fingers fumbling for the letter in his pocket. The edges were soft from countless readings, countless revisions. Words he’d labored over for days, trying to find the perfect way to tell Rebecca Ainsley how he felt. How her smile made his stomach flutter like he’d swallowed a jar of fireflies. How he’d memorized the exact shade of amber in her eyes. How he’d been saving his wages to take her somewhere nice, somewhere worthy of her.

Would she ever know?

Another explosion rocked the neighborhood, this one so close the entire building seemed to lurch. Something massive fell overhead, the ceiling groaning in protest. A new cloud of chalky dust filled the tiny space, choking him.

The light flickered once, twice—then died, leaving him in utter darkness.

The roar outside dulled. His world narrowed to the letter in his hand and the face that filled his mind’s eye. Rebecca. If he died here—would anyone tell her? Would anyone even know he’d been in the cellar when the bombs fell?

“Just let someone find this,” he murmured, clutching the letter to his chest like a talisman. “Just let her know.”

A deafening crack split the air. The walls shuddered. Something above gave way with a thunderous crash.

Will curled tighter into the corner, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.

Strangely, the fear began to fade, replaced by a hollow, aching sorrow. Nineteen years. All those dreams, all those plans—gone in a single night of fire and thunder. He’d never dance with Rebecca at the autumn social. Never discover if those feelings in her eyes meant what he hoped they meant. Never hold her hand under a harvest moon.

The ceiling groaned again, louder this time. Final.

He closed his eyes. In his mind, Rebecca’s face sharpened with perfect clarity: the freckles across her nose, the skeptical tilt of her eyebrow, the dimple in her right cheek when she truly smiled.

“Remember me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the tremble of stone.

The weight came all at once—crushing, absolute. For one bright, painful moment, Will thought of the life he would never have: a small house with a garden, children with Rebecca’s amber eyes, growing old surrounded by laughter and stories. Then even that faded.

His final thought wasn’t of fear or pain, but of her laugh—that golden laugh on a spring afternoon when they’d first met, sunlight in her hair, and the world still wide open.

A future without him in it.

Then—darkness. And silence.