About the book: 2016 / "For three days in a row, William Finch climbed into the attic early in the morning and stood quietly in the semi-darkness, blown by a draft, until the evening. November was drawing to a close, and for three days Mr. Finch stood there alone, feeling that Time itself was quietly, silently showering white flakes from the endless leaden sky, covering the roof with cold fluff and dusting the eaves. He stood motionless, his eyelids closed. The long, gray days dragged on, the sun did not show, the wind shook the attic like a fragile boat on the waves, creaked with every bone, shook off the dust that had accumulated over the decades from the beams, from the warped boards and shingles. Everything around oohed and aahed, moaned and groaned, and William Finch stood and inhaled the dry subtle smells, like exquisite perfumes, and became familiar with the treasures that had long been accumulated here…»