It was a dark, foggy night in the city, the kind of night where shadows slink down alleyways, and
the streets seem to whisper secrets you’re not supposed to hear. I was in my office, nursing a
glass of something that burned as it went down, when she walked in. Tall, elegant, and with a
kind of grit that suggested she'd been through more than her fair share of storms. She had one
thing on her mind—slate house signs.
'Mr. Slate,'she said, her voice a cool stream against the backdrop of the rain tapping on my
window. 'I hear you're the man to talk to about signs—house names and number signs, to be
specific.'
She wasn’t wrong. I’d seen enough of these cases to know where this was headed. Slate house
signs were the talk of the town, and I’d spent enough time with the chisel and stone to
understand the power behind them. There’s something about slate—solid, dependable, like an
old friend who never lets you down. But house signs? That’s where things got interesting.
I leaned back in my chair, took another swig of that burning liquid courage, and motioned for her
to sit down. “Tell me what’s got you in a twist, doll. You’ve got the look of someone who’s seen
too many wooden signs rot away.”
She sighed, and I could tell there was history behind that breath. “I’ve got a place—a house, not
too big, but it’s mine. The problem is, no one can find it. I need something that lasts, something
that says ‘this is my place’ without yelling about it. And I need numbers—house names and
number signs. Something classic. Something… slate.”
Slate. Yeah, I knew where she was coming from. There’s a reason slate house signs are the go-to
for folks who want more than just a marker on the wall. Slate’s got character, and when you
carve a name or a number into it, that’s not just a label—that’s a legacy.
“Slate’s your guy,” I said, leaning forward, my voice as gravelly as the stone she was talking
about. “You don’t want some flimsy piece of wood that’ll fade faster than a two-bit hustler. You
want something that’ll stand the test of time, through rain, wind, and all the nonsense this city
throws your way. Slate house signs—they’re like that strong, silent type. They do the job, and
they do it well.”
She nodded, a glimmer of hope flashing in her eyes. “I knew you’d understand. But what about
the style? It’s not just about having a sign—it’s about making a statement. I need a house name
carved into that slate. And the numbers—they need to pop.”
I couldn’t help but smirk. This dame knew her stuff. “You’re talking about customization. Every
house is different, right? And so are the people who live there. That’s why you don’t just slap
some generic numbers on the door. You make it personal. You make it yours.”
“Exactly,” she said, leaning forward. “I want people to know when they see that sign—they’ve
found me. They’ve found my home.”
It wasn’t just about the material—it was about what you did with it. Slate could take a beating,
sure, but the artistry behind those house names and number signs? That’s what set it apart. Every
engraving, every curve of the letter, it told a story. The story of the place, and the people who
lived there.
I pulled out a sample from my drawer, a chunk of slate with a name and number etched into it. I
slid it across the desk, and she picked it up, running her fingers over the smooth surface, tracing
the deep, clean lines of the engraving.
“That’s the real deal,” I said. “Slate doesn’t mess around. It’s the kind of sign that sticks with
you, year after year. You hang that by your door, and you’re not just hanging a sign—you’re
hanging a statement. A name carved in stone.”
She looked up at me, and for the first time since she walked in, she smiled. “You’ve convinced
me. Slate it is.”
I nodded, leaning back in my chair, feeling like I’d just cracked another case wide open. “You
won’t regret it, doll. Slate house signs—they’re the kind of thing that’ll last. Just like a good
mystery, they’re timeless.”
She left my office that night, the fog swallowing her up as she disappeared into the city streets.
But I knew one thing for sure—wherever she was going, there’d be a slate house sign waiting to
greet her. And that sign? It’d be there long after the rest of us were just another story in this city
of shadows.
