Adam Bourne once stood at the top of England’s legal world, a barrister with a silver tongue and a résumé polished by courtroom victories and Oxford myths. But in his late thirties, after the sudden and suspicious death of his wife—Lady Imogen Bourne—during covert RAF trials involving nuclear-powered blimps, Adam walked away from the bench and into the fog. The official story was an accident; the unofficial story vanished under classified ink. Disillusioned with justice, he vanished from public life, rumored to be chasing truths no one wanted found.
Now holed up on a windswept coastal edge, Adam writes with the same sharp edge he once brought to cross-examinations. His essays and novellas, often exploring maritime law, philosophical grief, and doomed airships, echo with dry wit and shadows of regret. Locals say he’s a ghost in a trench coat, still looking for the pieces the system refused to give him. One thing’s certain: Adam Bourne isn’t writing to forget—he’s writing because some ghosts won’t stay buried.
