Loneliness can grind a man down like a millstone—yet grief, transformed, can become the miller’s divine salvation. A widowed man turns a forgotten mill into a memorial for his lost little girl, and fate brings a stranger—fragile, secretive—who just might be the miracle he’s been waiting for.

He called himself O. Henry, but the man behind the pen was William Sydney Porter—a sneaky little Texan with a mustache, a wicked sense of irony, and a knack for surprise endings that snap like mousetraps. He wrote hundreds of short stories while dodging his past, which included a stint as a pharmacist, a failed bank career (let’s just say the books didn’t balance), and yes, a little time behind bars. But prison gave him a pen name and plenty of time to dream up twisty tales of crooks with hearts of gold, lovers with bad timing, and small moments that change everything.

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