The bookstore had no name, just an endless row of shelves that stretched into the unknown. The books on the shelves were never the same — they would appear and disappear without explanation. One moment you could reach for a title, and the next it would vanish. There were no labels, no titles to help guide you. The only thing that remained constant was the feeling that you were meant to find something here, but not the way you thought. These weren’t books; they were gateways to other worlds.
- Dust motes that finally became stars
- The last leaf on the last tree
- Every thought ever interrupted
- That one cat who already floated in its sleep
Pages That Were Stories of Tomorrow
If you opened a book here, the pages wouldn’t just tell you stories of the past or present. They spoke of things that hadn’t happened yet, things you couldn’t even imagine. The words shifted as you read, forming pictures of futures you couldn’t remember but somehow knew. The ink changed color with each turn of the page, responding to the reader’s emotions and thoughts. In this space, stories weren’t fixed; they were in constant motion, like a river of possibilities waiting to be discovered.
The Cashier Who Wasn’t There
The strange thing about this bookstore was that there was never anyone behind the counter. No matter when you visited, the cashier was never there. Yet, somehow, a price tag appeared on each book, not made of paper but of light. When you picked up a book, you
