The Empty Shop

“She’s not here,” Edgar said, his voice small, puffing a cloud into the cold air. He kicked at a patch of half-frozen slush on the pavement, the sound muffled by the falling snow.

Denny shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, the wool of his mittens itchy against his skin. “I know.”

Pauline adjusted her scarf, pulling it tighter around her chin. Her breath hitched, not from cold, but from a quiet worry that felt like a pebble caught in her throat. “Door’s locked.”

They stood before Mrs. Johnston's Secondhand Books, a small, timber-framed building nestled between the baker’s and the post office. Usually, even in the deepest winter, a warm, golden glow spilled from its windows, inviting them in with promises of biscuits and the smell of old paper. Today, the glass was dull, coated with a fine layer of frost that blurred the stacks of books within into indistinct, shadowy shapes. A small, hand-painted sign, 'Open', usually hung askew on the handle, was conspicuously absent.

“Maybe she just… went somewhere?” Edgar offered, though his eyes, wide and dark, betrayed his uncertainty. He shuffled his feet, leaving small, half-moon prints in the fresh dusting of snow.

“She never goes anywhere without telling us,” Pauline corrected him softly, her gaze fixed on the dark, unyielding door. A stray snowflake landed on her eyelashes, a tiny, freezing star. “Not for this long.”

Two days now. Two whole days since any of them had seen Mrs. Johnston. No cheerful wave from her window, no faint melody of her ancient gramophone drifting out onto the street. Their usual after-school pilgrimage to her shop for a story and a warm cup of cocoa had been met with a locked door and an unnerving quiet.

Denny stomped his feet, a burst of nervous energy. “We should… try again.” He reached out, his mitten-clad hand hesitating before the brass doorknob. The metal felt impossibly cold, like a dead thing.

He twisted. It gave. A tiny click, soft but sharp in the vast, winter silence.

All three children froze. Their breath stopped, held in a fragile bubble. The wind, which had been a constant companion moments before, seemed to hold its own breath, leaving only the distant, gentle hiss of falling snow.

Pauline gasped, a small, sharp sound. “It’s open?”

Denny pushed, slowly, tentatively. The door swung inward with a faint, almost imperceptible sigh, revealing a deeper cavern of shadow within. A gust of icy air, carrying the stale, undisturbed scent of ancient paper and dormant dust, rushed out, washing over their faces.

Edgar whimpered, taking a tiny step back. “It’s dark.”

“She must be in here,” Denny decided, trying to inject confidence into his voice, though it cracked slightly on the last word. His own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic little bird. They had to go in. Mrs. Johnston wouldn't just leave the door unlocked.

He stepped over the threshold first, his boots crunching on something gritty on the floor, a tiny spray of snow clinging to the mat. Pauline followed, her eyes darting around the dim interior. Edgar, after a moment of desperate hesitation, squeezed in behind her, pulling the door almost shut behind them, leaving only a sliver of the bruised evening light to filter through.

The air inside was colder than it should have been for a closed space. It held the oppressive, still weight of something left untouched for too long. Dust motes danced in the sparse beams of light struggling through the frosted panes, tiny, frantic universes in the gloom. The usual inviting scent of brewed tea and warm shortbread was entirely absent, replaced by that distinct, almost acrid smell of old books and disuse. It was nothing like the lively, comforting chaos they knew.

“Mrs. Johnston?” Pauline called out, her voice barely a whisper, swallowed immediately by the vast, echoing quiet of the shop. It was the kind of quiet that pressed in on you, that made your ears ache.

No answer. Only the gentle creak of the old floorboards under their own careful steps.

Among the Empty Aisles

They moved deeper into the shop, their small figures swallowed by the towering, haphazard stacks of books. The aisles were narrow, usually a delightful labyrinth of literary treasures, but now they felt menacing, casting long, wavering shadows in the poor light. Denny reached for the light switch, his fingers fumbling. It clicked, but nothing happened. The power, it seemed, was off, or perhaps the bulb had simply given up its last spark of warmth. The chill deepened, creeping under their coats, making their noses tingle.

Edgar bumped into a tall stack of encyclopaedias, making them sway precariously. He let out a nervous squeak. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Denny mumbled, his attention elsewhere. He was scanning the familiar, yet now alien, space. The worn armchair by the fireplace, usually occupied by Mrs. Johnston reading aloud, was empty, its crimson velvet looking faded and cold. The small, round table where they usually had their biscuits and cocoa sat bare, a fine sheen of dust already settling on its polished surface.

Pauline wandered to the counter, a low, scarred oak affair that usually held a jar of peppermint drops and a stack of recently acquired first editions. It, too, was empty. Her fingers traced the rough wood. It felt… abandoned.

“She’s not behind the counter,” Pauline reported, her voice hushed. “No peppermints.”

Denny edged past a pile of maps, their curled edges brittle. He walked to the back, to the small, curtained-off area where Mrs. Johnston sometimes took her afternoon nap, a small electric kettle always humming on a side table. He pushed aside the faded floral curtain. The space was tiny, cramped. A cot, neatly made, was pushed against one wall. The kettle sat cold and unplugJohnston. The air in there felt even colder, trapped and motionless.

“Nobody here,” Denny announced, the words feeling heavy in his mouth. He let the curtain fall back into place, the soft swish a mournful sound.

Edgar, meanwhile, was exploring the children's section, a colourful corner near the front, usually filled with illustrations and the sound of rustling pages. He touched a stuffed bear perched on a shelf. It felt stiff, unused. “What if… what if she got lost in the snow?”

Pauline had made her way to a display of antique paperbacks, their covers faded but still hinting at grand adventures. Her boot nudged something on the floor, near the bottom shelf. It was small, a sliver of bright colour against the dusty floorboards. She knelt, her knees protesting against the cold. She picked it up.

It was a bookmark. Not a simple, printed one, but a handmade thing. Thin, stiff cardstock, painted with delicate watercolours. A tiny, detailed winter robin, its breast a brilliant crimson, perched on a snow-dusted branch. Mrs. Johnston had made it. She always gave them away with the books they bought.

“Denny,” Pauline whispered, her voice tight with a new kind of fear. “Look.”

Denny and Edgar hurried over. Edgar craned his neck, peering at the tiny robin. “That’s Mrs. Johnston’s. She made lots of those.”

“Yes,” Pauline said, turning it over in her palm. The paint felt textured under her thumb. “But this one… it’s special.” Mrs. Johnston had only painted these intricate robins for her absolute favourite, most cherished books. They never left the shop, only staying tucked into a book waiting for a very specific customer.

The bookmark was smudged near one corner, a faint, almost invisible fingerprint marring the delicate blue of the winter sky. It was too pristine otherwise, too brightly coloured, to have been lying on the floor for long. It looked like it had been dropped in a hurry. The thought made a cold knot form in Denny’s stomach. A specific book, one of Mrs. Johnston’s special books, must have been open, and this robin had slipped out.

They stood in the quiet shop, the small, painted robin a vivid splash of colour in the deepening gloom. The last of the weak afternoon light was truly gone now, swallowed by the heavy grey of the winter sky. Outside, the streetlights had flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows onto the shop’s frosted windows. Inside, it was almost completely dark, the shelves fading into indistinct, looming shapes. The air grew heavier, colder, smelling not just of old paper but of something undefinable, something absent.

Edgar hugged himself, shivering. “It’s really cold now.” His teeth chattered faintly.

Pauline clutched the robin bookmark tighter. Her eyes, usually so bright, were clouded with a new kind of understanding. This wasn't just Mrs. Johnston being away. This was… different. The little shop, usually a haven of warmth and stories, felt like a tomb now, a silent monument to a person who was no longer there. The quiet pressed in, heavy and relentless.

Denny looked from Pauline’s hand, where the tiny robin seemed to pulse with an unnatural life, to the dark, silent corners of the shop. He tried to imagine Mrs. Johnston, humming a tune, dusting a shelf, making tea. The image wouldn't stick. The shop felt too empty for that. Too cold. The fact the door was open, the special bookmark dropped… it wasn't right. It wasn't how Mrs. Johnston did things. A shiver, not from the cold, ran down his spine.

The outside world, with its swirling snow and distant, muffled sounds, seemed impossibly far away. They were alone in the vast, still silence, the only sound the soft patter of snow against the windows and the faint, uneven beat of their own small hearts. The bookmark, warm from Pauline’s hand, felt too heavy, a small, vibrant splash against the deepening gloom of the bookshop. They had found a clue, but it only opened more questions into the quiet, snow-choked winter night.