The Lost Bookshop

by Evie Woods

Flashbacks of my father’s face haunted me, those tear-drenched nights when he tried to convince my mother to take him back. But at times, I just felt so tired. Tired of proving myself. Tired of trying to make someone see something in me that I wasn’t even sure was there.

I was not at my most sociable. I was tired and hungry and homesick for the kind of home I had never known.

You have to understand, old houses have their quirks. Some things are meant to be flawed. Therein lies beauty.’

‘What is something you create, even if you do nothing?’ The answer was a choice. Choosing not to do something was still a choice.

I realised now that this was the hollow inheritance passed down through the men in my family. And we spent our lives doing whatever it took to look like a strong man. Like scaffolding around me, it was only ever meant to be temporary. Something was supposed to get fixed inside. Only it never did. And somehow, Martha saw that brokenness and made it okay to be there.

I’ve never known or understood what it really means to love or be loved. I’m not going to blame my past, but we all have one and it follows us around like a prison, always keeping us from the person we truly wish to be.

‘The thing about books,’ she said, ‘is that they help you to imagine a life bigger and better than you could ever dream of.’