The Last Customer

The bookstore had survived longer than most promises.

Tucked between two modern buildings that constantly changed owners, the shop remained unchanged—dusty wooden shelves, warm yellow lights, and a bell above the door that rang like it had something important to announce. Sameer believed the shop existed outside of time. Everything else moved forward. The bookstore waited.

He had inherited it from his father twelve years ago.

At first, Sameer told himself it was temporary. He would run the shop until he figured out his real plan. Writing, maybe. Traveling. Doing something that felt larger than counting receipts and rearranging shelves.

Twelve years passed quietly.

Every evening followed the same rhythm. At 8:45 p.m., Sameer cleaned the counter. At 8:55, he checked the cash drawer. At exactly 9:00, he flipped the sign to CLOSED. He liked rules. Rules made time feel manageable.

That night felt no different—until the bell rang at 8:59.

Sameer looked up, irritated but polite.

The man who entered didn’t look strange. That was the unsettling part. No dramatic coat, no unusual posture. He looked like someone who had always existed in the background of Sameer’s life.

“I’ll be quick,” the man said.

Sameer nodded. “We’re closing.”

“I know,” the man replied, smiling faintly.

He moved through the aisles slowly, fingers brushing the spines of books without choosing any. He didn’t seem to be searching. He seemed to be remembering.

Sameer watched him from the counter. Customers usually hurried at this hour. This one didn’t.

After several minutes, the man approached holding a single book.

Sameer frowned. “That’s not from my shelves.”

The book was old but clean, with no title, no author, no markings. Just blank pages that felt heavier than they should have.

“It belongs here,” the man said calmly.

Sameer hesitated. “What’s it about?”

The man met his eyes. “The things we postpone.”

Something tightened in Sameer’s chest.

Trying to laugh it off, he rang it up anyway, typing a random price. The man paid with exact change.

“You close at nine every day,” the man said casually.

“Yes,” Sameer replied, uneasily.

“And you tell yourself that tomorrow will be different.”

Sameer stopped mid-motion. “Do I know you?”

“No,” the man said. “But you know yourself.”

The bell rang as the man left.

Sameer checked the clock.

9:00 p.m.

The bell should not have rung.

That night, Sameer couldn’t sleep. The conversation replayed in fragments. The words felt less like a warning and more like a mirror. He wandered into the living room and opened an old ledger his father used to keep behind the counter.

Between pages of sales records, he found a note in his father’s handwriting:

If you keep waiting for the right time, time will quietly leave without you.

Sameer didn’t remember ever reading it.

The next morning, the shop door was unlocked.

The lights were already on.

The blank book sat on the counter.

His heart pounded as he opened it.

The pages were no longer blank.

They were filled with moments from his own life—missed phone calls, abandoned drafts, trips he postponed, conversations he avoided. Pages turned themselves as he watched.

At the end was one empty page.

Beneath it, a sentence slowly appeared:

This page is still yours.

Sameer closed the book.

Outside, the city continued as usual. Buses passed. People hurried. Time showed no concern for his realization.

For the first time in twelve years, Sameer turned the sign to CLOSED in the morning.

He walked away from the shop without locking the door.

That evening, at exactly 9:00 p.m., the bell rang once.

No one entered.