Note: I made a list of prompts, and wrote a bite-sized story for each one. They don’t live in the same universe, but they’re all a little off-kilter from what you might expect from holiday fare. And if you pay attention, you’ll notice that the last line of each story becomes the first line of the next. Also?  You can listen to these stories at my podcast website: BathtubMermaid.com.

The storm had passed, but the warmth in the circle of chairs lingered like an afterimage.

Sam noticed it the moment he stepped inside Breakwater Books & Brew. The chairs near the bay window were still gathered close, mugs left where hands had warmed them, a scarf draped over the back of one seat as if its owner meant to return. The shop smelled faintly of cocoa and paper and something else—relief, maybe. The kind that came from not having to be alone for a while.

December always did this. People drifted in under the pretense of weather or errands and stayed because it felt safer than going home. They rarely asked for help; they just wandered until something caught and held.

Mae came in a few minutes later, stamping snow from her boots. She paused when she saw the chairs and smiled.

“Looks like last night was busy,” she said.

“Full house,” Sam said. “Jake said no  one wanted to be the first to leave.”

She nodded like she understood exactly what that meant and started gathering mugs, moving quietly so the room could keep its shape a little longer.

Sam began straightening shelves, returning books that had been handled and set aside. One paperback still lay open on the low table, its spine creased in that particular way that meant someone had read the same paragraph more than once. He picked it up and checked the bookmark tucked inside: a receipt from the ferry, folded small.

He smiled and set it behind the counter with the others.

That was his favorite part of the holidays—the way people found the book they needed by accident. Not the one they came in asking for, but the one that met them halfway. A collection of letters for the widower who needed other voices in the room. A mystery set in a seaside town for the woman who wanted somewhere familiar to walk for a while. A slim book of poems someone held against their chest, as if it had already said what they couldn’t.

Not every book left the store wrapped. Some left tucked under arms, or pressed flat against coats, or carried openly, like a declaration.

As Sam bent to straighten one of the chairs, something slipped from between the cushions and fell softly to the floor.

A book.

Not one of his.

The cover was plain, cloth-bound, its title stamped faintly on the front:

Harbormaster’s Log
Coal Bay, 1894–1899

He frowned, turning it over in his hands. It didn’t have a price sticker. No barcode. No record in his inventory.

Mae looked over from the sink. “Find something?”

“Looks like it found us,” Sam said.

He opened it carefully. The pages were filled with neat, spare handwriting—notes about weather, arrivals, departures. Names of ships. Names of people. Small observations written down so they wouldn’t be lost.

He read a line at random.

December 21. Cold, but clear. Three travelers stayed longer than planned. Gave them directions anyway.

Sam closed the book and sat for a moment, listening to the hum of the espresso machine warming up, the muted sounds of the harbor waking outside.

“Guess it belongs,” Mae said softly.

He set the logbook on the low table with the others—the found books, the waiting ones—and left it there.

Someone would need it.

The bell over the shop door chimed as the first patron of the day entered, brushing snow from their coat.

Sam stood, the familiar warmth of the morning routine settling over him again as he reached for the espresso machine switch.