The Bookshop That Forgot Names

By Farytude

The door was hidden behind a soft bell of swaying grass. She had walked past the path many times, but never stepped inside. Today, though, was different. She decided to enter, searching for a book on grief – something for her aunt, who was going through the pain of losing her husband.

It was an old bookstore, with a small portion reserved for sitting and reading, like a library. The place had the look and feel of the 1970s. The air smelled of old paper, and the wooden shelves curved like crooked spines, leaning slightly under the weight of books – or perhaps the weight of the stories hidden inside them.

An old woman smiled at her from behind the till.

“Hello, love,” she said kindly, “looking for anything in particular?”

“Yes, actually,” Eleanor replied. “It’s called Letters to the Lost? By Iona Grey?”

The woman nodded slowly, then ambled away around the bookstore. Her hands trailed along the shelves, touching the books as if she were reading through her fingertips. Eleanor waited and noticed something odd. A cookbook was placed among thrillers. A horror novel nestled between children’s fairytales. The arrangement was cluttered and confusing.

“Here you are,” said the woman, returning with a book and handing it over with a smile.

Eleanor looked down. It wasn’t Letters to the Lost. It was a novel titled The Unspoken Years. She looked at it, puzzled, “Oh, I think this isn’t—”

But the woman was already talking to a man who’d just come in, requesting her to search for Tell me your Dreams by Sidney Sheldon.

Eleanor almost left, leaving the book on the desk – but the smile on the old woman’s face made her pause. She bought the book. That night, she read it, and cried harder than she had in months. It wasn’t the book she had wanted to buy, but it was exactly the one she needed.

Eleanor wasn’t the only one.

Jamie, a graphic designer, once asked for a biography of Steve Jobs and instead left with a dog-eared copy of The Art of Stillness. He scoffed, but decided to read a few pages in the bookstore and ended up buying it.

Jennice, a mother of three, came searching for a bedtime story. As usual, she was handed a “wrong” book – a collection about mothers who had lost themselves in the lives of others. She didn’t say a word, but somehow felt compelled to buy it. Not only that, she came back the next week and bought five more on the same topic.

The staff, all elderly, were often confused and forgetful. George would shelve romance novels in the mystery section, then deny it with a laugh. Maria had a habit of calling everyone “darling,” especially when she forgot their names. Peter once gave a man the wrong book three times in a row, then apologized and offered tea out of embarrassment. 

They were each carrying personal burdens alongside the challenges of aging – yet they were lovely people, with years of experience in reading both books and human nature.

This book-cum-library was their second home, a place where they often found comfort and momentarily forgot their pains and struggles.

But it was not easy to empathize in today’s world, where time is considered money – and money a kind of superpower. It happened here too. Customers would grow frustrated, sometimes even angry. “Why doesn’t the owner just hire younger people?” they’d mutter. “They can’t even remember the titles.”

But the owner, Thomas, didn’t fire anyone. He knew each of them. George’s wife had passed three years ago — this shop was the only place he felt at peace. Maria’s memory was fading, but she still remembered how to smile like sunlight. Peter had no children, and so this bookshop had become his world.

One afternoon, Thomas found Maria crying softly in the poetry corner.

“I don’t think I’m any good here anymore,” she whispered. “I forget something or the other every day, it’s so embarrassing. Today I forgot where I put the kettle.”

“But dear, you remembered to show up,” he said, placing a hand over hers. “That’s more than enough.”

One winter morning, a letter arrived with no address.

It wasn’t directed to anyone in particular. The envelope simply read: To the person who gave me the wrong book.

The handwriting was beautiful and careful, as if trying to conceal something, yet still longing to express.

I asked for a book on managing money. Instead, I was handed over a novel about a lonely man who feeds birds in his garden. At first, I was annoyed, but the picture on the cover made me sit down in your bookstore for a while, and I started reading. That story compelled me to buy the book. It reminded me of my father, who lives in another city, far away from all his children. Suddenly, I wanted to visit him. Desperately. He is alone, old, and longing to see us. Thank you for reminding me of the presence and importance of parents. No digital world, no screen, no notification can ever replace the bonding of relationships and the power of physical presence. I just wanted to say thank you. Whoever you are – you gave me more than a book!

Thomas posted the letter near the till. No names. No reply address. Just proof that not all mistakes are meant to be fixed.

One day, Eleanor returned with a box of doughnuts and a book she thought Maria would like — even though she knew Maria might forget her name again.

“I still don’t know why you gave me the wrong book,” she said with a smile.

Eleanor smiled, unsure whether to laugh or cry. She stepped outside. The clouds were rolling low, and the scent of rain and coffee drifted from next door. It felt like a rare day – calm, beautiful, and free from the pressure of chasing time.

She stood for a moment and saw a little girl tug her grandmother toward the shop, eyes wide with curiosity. The grandmother hesitated, then followed her in. The door closing behind them was like a sigh at the end of a long day.

Eleanor looked up at the painted sign – faded and dull. 

“The Bookshop That Forgot Names.”

She hadn’t noticed it before.

What a name, she smiled. It felt intentional, as if the owner believed in people who carried wisdom, who knew that even mistakes could be meaningful.

That night, she gave The Unspoken Years to her aunt. They read it together over tea, chapter by chapter. Her aunt cried too, not just from sadness – but from recognition. From love. From the ache of memories and the relief of being understood without needing to explain.

Days passed. Then weeks and months. Eleanor kept returning. Sometimes with doughnuts. Sometimes with her aunt. Sometimes with nothing but the need to sit among forgotten titles and people who remembered her by face, not by name.

After some time, a nervous young man came in. He approached the till, holding a crumpled piece of paper.

“I… I’m looking for a book on dealing with regret,” he said. “Something practical. I messed up with someone, and I just…I don’t know what to do.”

Eleanor was standing near the counter when she noticed the young man. With a small gesture, she offered to help. Maria smiled and gladly directed him toward Eleanor. Eleanor greeted him and asked again about the book he was looking for. 

He hesitated, “I actually want something on grief,” he said softly.

Eleanor walked to the farthest shelf, where the labels had long since fallen off, and pulled down a novella. The cover was worn, the title smudged. 

It was about a baker who gave away pastries to poor strangers every morning, trying to forgive himself for a silence he’d kept too long.

“This might not be what you asked for,” she said gently, handing it over. “but maybe it’s the one you need.”

The young man looked surprised, read the blurb, nodded slowly, and bought the book.

And as he left, Eleanor stood in the doorway and watched him disappear into the rainy street. Something warm fluttered in her chest — as if something lost had quietly found its place.

Inside the shop, Maria was humming to herself. George was “reorganizing” the shelves in the most disorderly way possible. Peter had fallen asleep in the armchair by the window, a poetry book resting open on his chest.

Eleanor walked back in and straightened a crooked stack of books.

She still didn’t know how the wrong books always found the right people.

But somehow, they did…

Perhaps the shop remembered what the people had forgotten. 

Perhaps it was empathy — the invisible thread binding strangers through shared ache, hope, and unspoken truths.

And on the door of the shop, beneath the faded painted name, someone had pinned a sign.

“We may forget the names — but somehow, the stories always find the right people.”

Farina Jaffer is a marketing professional who discovered a quiet escape in writing. She enjoys creating scenes that pull her into the world she imagines — a way to disconnect from everyday stress. A lifelong lover of fairytales and magical worlds, she now writes to connect those dreamlike places with the often tough realities of life. Writing under the pen name Farytude, she shares fictional stories, life reflections, and thoughts on health and self-awareness on Medium.