I was 11 years old when my mother, one day left me and dad and never looked back. My parents loved each other, they had their fair share of fights but never abusive ones, if anyone would ask me, I would say I had a happy childhood. My Dad cherished his wife deeply, despite occasional petty disagreements.

The one thing I remember about their arguments is aai's primary grievance with Dad, his perceived lack of assistance and appreciation for her homemaking efforts, which often ignited their conflicts. Whenever she complained to him he took it lightly and ignored it.

But the morning after she left, dad woke up at the time she used to, went to the bathroom, took a bath along with brushing his teeth, woke me up for school then went to kitchen to make me lunch for school, mad his lunch packed both our boxes, help me dress up and dropped me off to school. He did all the chores she used to do for me without missing a single day.

I was 15 years old when the first news of aai came to us, she had written a letter saying she was getting married. That was the only time they heard from her. She apologized for leaving me behind, and that she would never forgive herself for that. I especially remember that morning as clear as daylight, his teary eyed face but stoic expressions, how he never let a single tear fall, his swollen eyebags, slumped shoulders and the way he avoided eye contact with me. His normally vibrant gaze, now downcast, mirrored the hollowness I felt inside. We never talked about aai ever again, and I followed suit, never bringing it up.

I clutched the letter in my pocket, the familiar weight a dull ache against my thigh. I hadn't planned to write it, the words spilling out in a torrent of grief and longing buried for years.

Standing on the pathway alongside the busiest road in Mumbai, lost in thought, I had almost missed the bookstore. Tucked amongst the bustling shops, it appeared like a mirage – a turquoise haven amidst the concrete jungle, on top of the shop in big bold letters painted in white were the letters 'Kitaby- Your Second Hand Book Shop' (Books).

I must have passed this road probably a hundred times and I had never noticed this bookshop before. How is it possible to miss such an eye-catching structure? I ran across the street looking out for the traffic of cars and bikes. The afternoon sun made it impossible to have a clear view of the inside of the shop. I pressed my face against the glass blocking away the sunlight to get a better view. There was no one in the bookshop, not even at the counter. Surely the shop must be closed. I peeked at the door looking for a board that would say 'Closed' but the door had no sign at all.

Hesitating, I pushed the door open and walked inside. The shop was fairly small on the inside and definitely old judging but the smell of old wood. There was dust settled on the books and spiderwebs on the corners of walls and shelves. It had three shelves full of books parallel to each other right as you entered through the door. On either side of the first and last shelf there were two doors. One of those doors led to the restroom, the other however was entirely painted in red color and it had a golden handle. The door was closed with no sign that would indicate what could be on the opposite side of it. I made my way towards the counter on the left side of the main door and pressed on the bell kept on the table vigorously.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A middle aged man with thin body structure and lumpy posture stepped out from behind the red door, "Welcome to Kitaby, Who do we have here today? Please feel free to explore." he said, surprised by the sudden hoarse voice, I searched for the source.

He wore a winter jacket on top of a white t-shirt and black pants. "That's a winter jacket, aren't you feeling hot, uncle?" I stared at his thick black coat, it was of the sort which one wears while it snows.

And although it has been a little chilly for the past few days and people have started wearing their winter clothes, a winter jacket was probably taking it too far. "It gets a lot cold this time of the year from where I come" he said while he took off his jacket and placed it on a hook behind him turned towards me and smiled "It's become a habit." How can wearing a cold jacket in a humid climate be just the effect of a habit? Weird. "Where do you come from?" I asked him out of curiosity

"Where do you come from my dear? It's been a while since I saw someone push that door open. And What's your name?" He counter questioned me. "My name is Chaitra. I was just going to meet someone, when I saw your shop. How long has this shop been here? I have never seen it before. It looks pretty rustic and ol- vintage to me" I said, swallowing the lump in my throat.

I was a wanderer. Whenever I have a day off from college I walk around the city with a small notebook and a camera, looking at the old shops and people from different walks of life, running towards something or running away from something. One of my favorite destinations was a coffee shop or a book shop, particularly indie book shops. They had an essence of old India, the one before technology, the one where libraries and small bookshops were the lifeline for readers like me, the one where I used to visit as a small girl with aai.

"It's so weird, no-one seems to find this shop. One day it just suddenly appears, they say," the old man said with a puzzled look "like magic" he whispered the last three words leaning over the counter.

"My great grandfather set this place up in the 1800's. It was pretty popular back in my father's time. Nowadays people dont like to buy second hand books, so not a lot of people come here. I am so elated to have someone here." he continued with a sweet smile on his wrinkled face "do you wish to look around?" he looked at me with hope, and I can't say no to him, he looks like a sweet man. "Um, yes thank you." I said and made her way to the shelves.

Starting at the first shelf, my eyes glided through the books with speed. When you visit a bookshop almost everyday you get this super power of recognizing books by their spines, but the kind of titles I could read were quite peculiar, some I have never heard of before. The Language of Lost Things: Understanding Messages from Forgotten Objects , The Dream Weavers Handbook: Crafting and Interpreting Dreams. What kind of books are these? Maybe the next shelf has some normal books.

I moved to the second shelf and there I can see it. Is it a dream? I haven't seen this book for 10 years. The Wishing Well and the Moonflower. It was my favorite book growing up, every night before going to bed I demanded it to be read. Aai then used to sit beside me and tell me the story of a curious girl named Maya who befriends a magical moonflower that grants her a story and helps her grandmother regain her health through the power of storytelling. The day aai left, I never read the book again.

I reached out to pick the book up when the owner of the shop called out

"Found anything you like dear?"

"Yes, I did." I said, desperately avoiding his eye contact.

"This one. The Wishing Well and The Moonflower."

"Oh! That's a special one. It's my personal favorite."

"Mine too. My mother used to read this to me every night before bed."

As I opened the book there was a sudden flash beaming through the open glass window, like two giant car headlights glaring through. I squinted my eyes as the lights grew brighter and brighter. I couldn't keep my eyes open. Who is that? I walked over the door to tell him off. I pushed open the door, stepped out of the shop.