The Bookshop at the End of Dreamland Lane
William WalterShare
A bedtime story for little readers everywhere. Best enjoyed with a warm blanket, a soft light, and someone you love reading beside you.
🌙 ~ 5 minute read ~
At the very end of Dreamland Lane, past the house with the purple door and the garden full of sleepy sunflowers, there was a tiny bookshop.
It had no sign. It had no hours. But every night, just as the stars began to blink on one by one, a warm golden light would glow in the window — and the door would open, just a crack, as if it had been waiting for you all along.
The bookshop belonged to a small, round owl named Oliver.
Oliver wore a tiny pair of spectacles on the very tip of his beak, and he always smelled faintly of cinnamon and old pages — which, if you have ever smelled old pages, you will know is one of the very best smells in the world.
One evening, a little girl named Wren pushed open the door.
She had never been to the bookshop before. She had walked past it a hundred times, but tonight something felt different. Tonight the light in the window seemed to flicker just for her.
"Good evening," said Oliver, without looking up from the book he was reading. "I've been expecting you."
Wren looked around. The shelves went all the way up to the ceiling — so high she couldn't see the top — and every shelf was packed with books of every color. Red ones and blue ones and ones that shimmered like the inside of a shell. There were tiny books no bigger than her thumb and enormous books that looked like they might take a whole year to read.
"How do I know which one is mine?" Wren asked.
Oliver finally looked up. His golden eyes were very kind behind his spectacles.
"That," he said, "is the best question anyone has ever asked me."
He hopped off his stool and waddled slowly down the first aisle. Wren followed.
"The right book," said Oliver, "is never the one you expect. It is the one that finds you." He stopped in front of a shelf near the window. "Close your eyes."
Wren closed her eyes.
"Now," said Oliver softly, "think of the thing that makes you feel most like yourself. Not the thing you are good at. Not the thing people tell you to do. The thing that makes your heart feel full and quiet at the same time."
Wren thought. She thought of the way the sky looked just before a storm, all purple and silver. She thought of the sound of rain on the roof. She thought of the feeling of being tucked in so tightly that nothing in the world could reach her.
"Now open your eyes," said Oliver.
There, right in front of her, was a small green book. It had a cover the color of deep forest moss, and on the front, in gold letters, were the words: For You, On a Rainy Night.
Wren reached out and touched it. It felt warm.
"How did you know?" she whispered.
Oliver smiled — and owls, when they truly smile, look like the whole world is a wonderful secret they are very pleased to share.
"I didn't," he said. "You did."
Wren tucked the book under her arm and walked home through the quiet street. The stars were fully out now, bright and steady. She climbed into bed, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and opened to the first page.
And the story began.
The End. 🌟
Sweet dreams, little reader.
Every great adventure begins with opening a book.