The Last Bookstore on Earth

They stopped printing books before I turned twenty-five.

Not officially, of course. But you could feel it happening. Libraries turned into “digital immersion centers.” Bookstores became yoga studios or coffee labs. I remember walking into one with my niece once, trying to show her what a “bookstore” used to look like. She thought I meant the Kindle section at Target.

Anyway.

That was years ago. I had moved on too, just like everyone else. My neural feed kept me updated. I absorbed novels like vitamins—20 seconds of Austen before bed, a few lines of Baldwin over breakfast. It worked. I kept up. But it didn’t feel like reading. Not really.

Then came that rainy Tuesday.

I wasn’t planning to go anywhere. I’d left work early, more out of burnout than efficiency. My brain felt like a cluttered desktop. You know when your eyes blur from too much screen time and your thoughts start echoing?

That was me.

I ducked into an alley—not for shelter, but to be away. Just for a second.

And there it was.

A crooked little door, squeezed between two buildings that hadn’t seen a tenant in years. Wood warped with age. Foggy glass window. On it, faded gold letters:

"The Last Bookstore."

My first thought? Gimmick. My second? I didn’t care.

The door creaked open. I stepped inside.

And something shifted.

Warm light. Real light. Lamps with bulbs, not artificial sun beams. Shelves towering over me, packed—crammed—with books. Paper books. Smelled like childhood and dust.

I didn’t speak at first. I just wandered. Ran my fingers along the spines. Some I recognized. Some I didn’t. Some were so old their titles had rubbed off completely.

“Most people cry when they first come in,” said a voice behind me.

I turned. An old man sat behind a desk, book open, cat curled on a stack of hardcovers like it owned the place. He looked like he’d been there forever.

I laughed awkwardly. “I’m not crying.”

He didn’t argue. Just smiled.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“A reminder,” he said.

That was it. No long pitch. No menu. No tour.

He let me roam.

I don’t know how long I stayed. Maybe an hour. Maybe five. No clocks. No notifications. No feed.

I pulled out a copy of The Little Prince. My favorite, once. Before feeds. Before adulting.

When I opened it, something fell out. A torn piece of paper. In blue ink:

“You’re not broken. You’re just quiet.”

I didn’t realize how hard I was gripping it until my knuckles turned white.

Later, when I went to pay, he shook his head.

“It’s yours,” he said. “Some books find their way home.”

Then he reached under the desk and handed me a notebook. Blank. Thick pages. Smelled like new beginnings.

“You look like you’ve got something to say,” he said.

I left with the book and the notebook tucked under my coat. It had stopped raining. The sky was pink and bruised, the kind of sky that makes you feel nostalgic for nothing in particular.

But when I turned back—nothing.

The door? Gone. Just a wall with peeling paint and ivy crawling up like it had always been there.

That was five years ago.

I never found it again. Believe me, I tried. Searched forums. Walked the city. Nothing. Not even a rumor.

But I have the notebook. It’s not full yet. I don’t write every day. Sometimes weeks go by. But when I do write, it feels like I’m talking to someone who’s really listening. Maybe even myself.

People still ask me where I got that old edition of The Little Prince. I just smile.

And on rainy days, when the city slows down and the air smells faintly of dust and cinnamon, I listen.

Because somewhere, I believe...

The Last Bookstore is still out there.

Waiting for the next person who forgot how much they needed a story.

One follow is all it takes — miss it now, and you may never find me again.