The key stuck for a second, then gave way with a familiar click. I pushed the door open, and the faint jingle of the front bell rang out across the quiet. It felt like the shop was saying hello.
“Hi,” I whispered back, stepping inside. “Miss me?”
The scent of old paper, wood polish, and dust welcomed me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. This place had always felt more like home than any house I’d ever lived in. The air was still. Expectant. Like it had been holding its breath until I came back.
I flicked on the lights. They blinked once, twice, then settled with a hum—revealing row after row of shelves waiting patiently, like old friends. Some titles still in the exact spot I remembered, others shuffled just slightly. The kind of changes only someone who loved the place would notice.
“Marmalade,” I called out as I walked into the tiny kitchen nook. The kettle looked exactly the same, a little chipped but still loyal. I filled it, then turned just in time to see a streak of orange amble into the doorway.
“There you are,” I said, grinning as the cat stretched, tail high, blinking at me like I was late to my own welcome party.
I crouched down to scratch behind his ears. “You guarding the shop while I was gone?”
He purred loud enough to rattle, nudging his face against my hand before trotting off to claim his usual sun-spot under the window.
I grabbed the broom and started sweeping pine needles from the floor—remnants from last week’s decoration run. Every sweep felt like a memory. Mr. Fletcher’s voice echoed in my head, gruff but kind:“You’re better than that, girl. Don’t let the floor eat the season.”
I smiled to myself.
He’d taught me everything. How to restock shelves, how to listen when someone didn’t know what they were looking for, how to find the exact right book when they didn’t even have the words for what they needed. He made this place feel like magic—like a place where you were allowed to belong.
When he got sick, I never missed a day. I’d come after school, sit by his bed, tell him about the shop, about the town, about silly little things just to make him laugh. Some days, he could barely talk, but he always smiled when I walked in.
In the end, he left this shop to me.
The granddaughter he never had.
And coming back here felt like stitching something back together—something I didn’t even realize had torn.
As I worked my way around the store with broom in hand, lost in thought, Marmalade watched me from his window perch, tail curled around him like punctuation. Sunlight spilled through the glass, casting golden light across his fur and making him look like something out of a fairy tale.
“This is our home now,” I murmured, sweeping pine needles into a tidy pile. The scent of evergreen still lingered in the air, tangled with dust and memory. A strange, lovely reminder that life kept going—even when you were standing still.
My thoughts drifted to opening day next week, fluttering in my chest like pages caught in the wind. New stock arriving. Local friends promising to stop by. Maybe even a few faces I hadn’t seen in years, peeking through those glass doors, curious and kind.
The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden—cutting through the quiet hum of nostalgia that had settled over the bookshop like a favorite blanket. The sound snapped me back into the present.
I poured the hot water over loose tea leaves nestled in my favorite mug—the blue-speckled one Mr. Fletcher gave me because he said it“looked like it belonged in your hands.”I never argued with him about those things.
“Cheers,” I said to Marmalade, raising the cup in a quiet toast. He blinked slowly, as if he approved.
The tea’s warmth spread through me, deeper than just heat. It wasn’t just about reclaiming this space. It was about becoming—rebuilding the lost pieces, word by word, shelf by shelf. Inside these dusty walls and dog-eared corners lived stories waiting for someone brave enough to turn the page.
And this time, that someone was me.
I dug through the storage closet, pushing aside old boxes until my fingers landed on something familiar—the little artificial tree, buried beneath layers of dust and forgotten Decembers. I pulled it out gently and set it on the counter, giving the branches a firm shake like I was waking them from a long nap.
“Time to get festive,” I told Marmalade, who was perched like royalty on a shelf nearby, watching me like he wasn’t convinced I knew what I was doing.
I flicked on the Bluetooth speaker, and the soft notes ofHave Yourself a Merry Little Christmasfilled the room. The music wrapped around me like a scarf someone else had knitted just for me—comforting, quiet, and filled with things I didn’t have words for.
I strung twinkle lights along the windows, their gentle glow chasing back corners that had sat in shadow too long. Each bulb blinked to life like it remembered what joy felt like. I grinned over my shoulder at Marmalade. He blinked slowly, unimpressed but not leaving.
“Look at this!” I said, stepping back to admire the soft glitter of color reflecting in the glass. Dust motes spun like snowflakes in the sunlight. “We’re going to make this place feel like home again.”
At the base of the tree, I placed a few old books—titles no one had touched in years, but I couldn’t part with. A weathered copy ofA Christmas Carol, a children’s book with a faded cover and silver stars. They felt right here. Anchored.
Marmalade leapt down and padded over, giving the tree a sniff before casually swatting at a dangling ornament.
