"Okay, good night, books," the elderly bookshop owner, Irish, murmured as she locked up. She had inherited the bookshop, Iris's Wonders, from her grandmother who had inherited it from her father before her, and so on and so forth. Iris was a family name that had, like the bookstore, been passed down for generations.
Iris had grown up at Iris's Wonders and there was something magical about the place. Not in the way that all bookstores are magical, though there was that too, but something tangibly magical about it. Iris had tried to catch glimpses of the magic, but only saw the shadows. Books that were disheveled the night before were neatly shelved the next morning. A book that had been neglected was suddenly on display and off to a good home the next day. The new books on the cart were, ever so slightly, arranged thematically, giving Iris an idea for a new display.
And, beyond these mysterious happenings, there was the feeling of the place. People would come to the store in a variety of moods: some curious for a new read, some desperate to find the perfect gift, and some simply seeking shelter from inclement weather, but they would all leave with a look of tranquility on their faces, book or, at least, an idea of a book, clutched closely to their hearts.
Iris's grandmother, whom she was named for, that that was the magic of books, but Iris had been to other bookstores. While they all had their charms, their special nooks, and their unique vibes, nothing matched Iris's Wonders.
Every now and then, she would make mention of the magic to a patron who would want to spend the night in the bookstore or conduct a ghost-hunting expedition in the bookstore. Iris allowed some, but not all, of them to do so, yet nothing yielded any particular results. The ghost-hunters, seancers, and curious customers all reported that they loved the bookstore even more after spending such close time with the ceiling-high shelves, the surprising couches found in unexpected nooks, and the bookseller-curated displays on topics from "the cover was blue" to "women in STEM" to "books that can inform you on your favorite Broadway musical," but none reported anything unusual (other than an abundance of charm).
Iris, of course, had spent more than one night in the bookstore by herself. Sometimes it was inventory that kept her there late, when she was a child it was the wonderment of being surrounded by books and being read to endlessly by her grandmother, and still other times it was the hope that she could capture an actual glimpse of the magic.
She knew every oak shelf, every title from dusty classic to zazzy frontlist hit (though she admittedly often double-checked her computer inventory to be sure), every nook, every crook, every couch, and even, when they were there, every frequent customer. The smell of new books, paper, ink, and wonder, filled the air, and was never overwhelmed by the weather, a customer's perfume or cologne, or the pastries from the coffee shop next door. It was always perfectly book-scented.
Just like she knew it all, she knew there was tangible magic in that shop. One day, she'd see it.
Iris sighed as she left, maybe one day she'd catch the magic. She turned the final key in the final lock, turned herself, and walked away
"Good night, Iris," murmured the books just after Iris had left.
(Prompt by ChatGPT)
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