Jess Elliott

Time is a currency. June West is done letting strangers spend it. When June inherits her grandmother's brass locket-an old Appalachian timepiece that can "borrow" a second to save a life-she swears to use it the way it was meant: for chores, not miracles. But a velvet-voiced salesman arrives in her Tennessee county selling "seamless" days and mercy in bulk-token bowls, hush machines, subscription ferries.
Every bargain makes life easier.and emptier. Every "improvement" steals the small, human pauses a town needs to stay itself. Standing between the county and a clean, polished quiet is June; her mother, who believes pie is a sacrament; and Elias, the river's ferryman with a gold ring in his eye and a past that smells like rain. Together they rig bell-ropes to names, stitch windows open two inches, teach a haunted motel to eat jam instead of vows, and turn a creaking ramp into Afterwards, the ferry that gets folks home.
The salesman's offer gets sharper: ten storm-free years.if June hands over the locket-and the hinge in her own heart. To keep her town's breath un-bought, June must decide what she'll trade, what she won't, and whether love is an hour you guard or a door you keep open. A tender, eerie, small-town romantic fantasy about the minutes that make us human-knocked mugs, sung names, imperfect hymns-and the courage to spend them where they count.