The Twice-Imagined Bookshop

A Bookstore, Brussels

He hangs a handwritten sign in the window:
“Closed Wednesdays. Open late for readings.”

The shop smells of yellowed paper and Gauloises smoke.
She curates a shelf called A Room Within a Room.
He files poetry under Tremors, history under Wounds, and
music biographies under Ghosts Who Lingered Too Long.

They play Low on the turntable, then switch to Jacques Brel.
Locals drift in. Expats with notebooks.
The occasional ex-punk who knows without asking.

He still writes. Of course he does.
But the words are gentler now.
They fall like leaves instead of breaking like glass.

He signs his name with a flourish he never used before.
Never the icon. Just a man.
A clerk of memory. A steward of pages.

They had years.
Lived years.
Years with winter walks and late-night wine
and small arguments over where to shelve Rimbaud.

Time still moves. The shop still closes.
The pages yellow whether they’re read or not.

---

The Shop on Rue des Miroirs

They say there’s a little bookshop that only appears when you’re lost—not lost in the city, but in yourself.
Inside, two ghosts tend the stacks.

He moves slowly, like a man who once danced with his demons and lived to write about it.
She hums melodies no one can place, but everyone feels like they’ve always known.

They won’t sell you anything.
But if you sit long enough, they’ll hand you a book that isn’t written yet.
The title is your name.
The pages are blank.
But the spine is worn from use.

When you leave, you remember something that never happened—
and grieve it as though it did.