No one remembered when the shop had first opened, yet each December it drew the same mix of hope and trepidation from all who passed its glass-stained, scarlet doors.

I was halfway through my coffee when the bell rang. Once, sharp and expectant. I knew it was for me. I sighed, abandoned my coffee like it had personally disappointed me, and crossed the street. There were no sales or opening hours advertised on the windows. Only one line:

RUE’S YEAR-END STOCKTAKE: ENTRY REQUIRED.

Required felt personal. The moment I stepped inside, the shop woke up.

Shelves slid sideways to make room for me. Labels fluttered like butterflies, landing wherever they pleased. Somewhere overhead, a clock ticked, impatiently. The air smelled like dust, lavender, and a candle that had been discontinued years ago for no good reason.

“Hello!” I said, because it felt rude not to.

The shop grumbled back.

Every shelf held things I almost recognised: a scarf I lost at a party, a lamp with no bulb, and stacks of letters I never sent because I couldn’t find the right words. As I walked, the shelves hunched closer, eager.

A bell dinged sharply, and three tags dropped from the ceiling, hovering midair.

TAKE ONE.
THROW ONE.
LEAVE ONE.

I laughed. The shop did not.

TAKE ONE

A small guitar keychain slid off a shelf and landed at my feet.

When I picked it up, a memory flooded in: a late-night drive, windows down, volume too loud. A fleeting connection with a stranger over shared music. Absolute joy.

The keychain was warm in my palm. Peaceful.

“Yeah, you’re coming with me.”

The shelves exhaled in satisfaction.

THROW ONE

A cracked wine glass shook violently until I took it down. I remembered drinking from it during moments that felt too big to control, forcing myself to believe it would ease the pain.

The shop wheeled a small bin onto the floor.

I hesitated. The bell rang. Louder.

I dropped it.

The glass shattered on impact, the sound sharp and final. The shop celebrated, lights blazing brighter than before.

LEAVE ONE

This one hurt.

A leather-bound notebook waited on a table that hadn’t been there before. Its pages held pieces of friendships I could no longer step into, moments that belonged to another time. A weary smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

I closed it gently and placed it back on the table. The shop stilled. No ticking. No bells. Just quiet respect.

“Thank you,” I whispered, unsure whether I meant the shop or the notebook.

The exit appeared where the scarlet doors had been all along. Outside, the air felt clearer. Lighter. I checked my pocket. The keychain was still there. Behind me, the shop dimmed its lights. It would see me next December.