The Girl from Aisle Thirteen

The Stranger in the Red Coat

Rain trickled down the dusty windowpane, tracing jagged paths as if the sky itself couldn’t decide how to weep. Inside the tiny bookshop on 3rd and Wren, a boy named Eli sat cross-legged behind the counter, flipping through a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles, sketches, and dreams. He had worked there for only three weeks, but every hour felt like home.

The shop was old—older than most remembered. The wooden floors creaked like they had secrets, and the walls, packed tight with overstuffed shelves, whispered with stories long forgotten. People rarely came in. It was almost as if the place chose who it allowed through its foggy glass door.

The scent of old paper, the comforting clutter of unread worlds—this was his escape from everything else.

But something about the routine disturbed him.

Every evening at exactly 5:44 PM, a girl in a faded red coat walked in. Always soaked at the cuffs. Always silent. She moved like she had memorized the layout of the place a hundred lifetimes ago. And she always went to the very back—to a section no one else ever touched.

She disappeared down aisle thirteen.

The strange thing? There was no aisle thirteen. At least, not officially. The shop’s map on the wall labeled only twelve aisles. The thirteenth was hidden behind a crooked bookshelf, half-covered by a faded curtain and a fake plant. It was a place even the owner never spoke of.

Eli asked once.

The owner—an old man with cloudy eyes—just said, “Some corners of this shop aren’t meant for wandering.”

Aisle Thirteen

Curiosity had grown roots inside Eli, twisting and tugging at his sense of logic. So, one stormy evening, he decided to follow her.

At 5:43 PM, he stood near the front, pretending to rearrange bookmarks. The bell jingled exactly one minute later.

She entered.

Rain dripped from her coat, pooling silently on the wooden floor. Her eyes were dark, distant. She passed him without even a glance. And, as always, she made her way to the back.

Eli hesitated—then crept after her.

He pushed aside the fake plant, ducked under the curtain, and stepped into aisle thirteen.

He immediately knew he’d crossed into something… different.

The air was heavier. Time moved slower. The shelves stretched farther than seemed possible in the small shop. Books on the shelves weren’t dusty or worn like the others. They shimmered faintly, as if lit from within. The titles shifted as he tried to read them:

“The Atlas of Lost Tomorrows”

“Histories of People Never Born”

“The Unwritten Chapters of Eli J. Ford”

His name.

On a book.

He froze.

The girl stood in front of the middle shelf and pulled out a thin, leather-bound volume. It had no title, only a silver clasp shaped like an open eye.

The Gatekeeper's Warning

Then she turned and faced him.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Her voice was soft. Not angry—just… sad.

“I work here,” Eli replied, trying to mask the tremble in his voice.

“No one works here. Not really. They’re chosen.”

“Chosen for what?”

“To protect the stories that don’t want to be read.”

He blinked. The books around them began to hum, vibrating with a low, resonant sound. Like music from a dream.

“This place,” she whispered, “is more than a bookshop. It’s a gate. These stories… they rewrite the world.”

“Then why do you take them?”

“Because someone has to. Someone has to keep the stories from becoming truth again.”

She held the book out to him.

“This one’s yours.”

He took it. It was warm, almost alive. The clasp unlatched with a soft click. Inside were pages written in his own handwriting.

But they described a life he had never lived.

Friends he never made. A college he never attended. A dream of becoming a musician. A love story that never happened. Yet… he felt every moment of it like a half-forgotten dream.

“What is this?”

“Your other life. The one you gave up to be here.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re a writer. Writers remember pieces of the forgotten world. You’re one of the last.”

The Choice

He stared at the book, flipping through fragments of a life he almost remembered.

“So what do I do?”

“Write it… or forget it.”

“But if you write it… remember—

stories come to life.”

She took a step back. The aisle around her shimmered like water disturbed by wind.

“Wait—who are you?”

“Someone who wrote one story too many.”

Then, like smoke in sunlight, she was gone.

Ink and Memory

The lights flickered once. The heavy silence returned. Eli stood there, heart pounding, breath held. He returned to the counter with the book in his hand and placed it beside his notebook.

His own scribbled poem stared up at him:

“I miss the things I never had,

The faces that never smiled back.

The pages I never wrote down.”_

He looked at the poem, then at the book.

He picked up his pen.

And slowly, deliberately—he began to write.

About the Author

Shafi is a fiction writer who believes that stories have the power to unlock forgotten memories and open hidden doors. Fascinated by quiet magic and the strange beauty of everyday places, he writes tales that blur the line between reality and imagination. “The Girl from Aisle Thirteen” is a reflection of his love for mysterious atmospheres, lost moments, and the kind of stories that stay with you long after you finish reading. For Shafi, writing isn’t just expression—it’s exploration.