> "Books can carry memories, but some pages are meant to be forgotten."
— Curtain's Edge Bookstore Memoir, Page One
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It was raining the night I found the bookstore.
The kind of soft drizzle that blurs the streetlights into watercolor.
I was walking home, umbrella in hand, when I noticed a faint light coming from the narrow alley between two closed shops.
There, beneath an old sign that read "Curtain's Edge Bookstore", a single lamp flickered like a heartbeat.
The sign shouldn't have been lit.
It was past midnight.
Curiosity tugged at me harder than reason. I stepped closer, and the wooden door opened with a low creak—
as if it had been waiting.
---
Inside, the air smelled faintly of old paper and rain-soaked dust.
The shelves stretched impossibly deep, disappearing into darkness.
Each book was wrapped in thin white paper, no titles, no authors—only a small silver symbol stamped on the cover: a series of interlocking musical notes.
"Welcome."
The voice came from behind the counter.
A tall man in a grey vest looked up from a ledger. His eyes were calm, yet there was something ancient in them—like he'd seen too many stories end.
"You're still open?" I asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. The hands pointed to 12:07 a.m.
"We only open now," he said, smiling slightly. "This is the hour when forgotten things come to find their readers."
I didn't quite understand, but something about his tone made it impossible to leave.
He gestured to the nearest shelf. "You may borrow one book, if you wish. But remember—
every memory you take must be replaced with one you give up."
I laughed nervously. "You mean, I have to forget something?"
He nodded, writing something in his ledger.
"That's the rule. The currency of memory keeps the shelves balanced."
---
My hand reached out almost on its own.
The moment my fingers touched one of the silver-marked books, a chill ran up my arm.
It was warm—like skin—and faintly trembling.
The cover bore no title, but when I opened it, a soft sound spilled out—
a piano melody, delicate and haunting.
For a second, I saw something:
a girl sitting by a window, playing a piano under golden light. Her hair swayed with each note.
And then—nothing. The image vanished like a dream slipping through my fingers.
I blinked, breath catching. "What was that?"
The man behind the counter watched me quietly.
"That one seems to have chosen you."
---
He wrapped the book in parchment, tied it with a black ribbon, and handed it to me.
"Return it when the melody ends," he said.
"And if, by then, you can still remember where this place is—you may borrow another."
Before I could ask what that meant, the world flickered.
The lamplight dimmed. The shelves blurred.
Then I was outside again.
The alley was empty.
The sign for "Curtain's Edge Bookstore" was gone.
Only the book in my hand proved any of it had been real.
The silver notes on the cover shimmered faintly in the streetlight, like something breathing.
---
That night, lying in bed, I opened the book again.
There were no words inside—only blank pages.
But when I ran my fingers across them, the melody played once more.
It was warm.
Familiar.
And heartbreakingly sad.
I didn't know why, but I found myself whispering—
> "Who's song is this?"
And somewhere, faintly,
a girl's voice answered from the depths of my memory.
> "Y–C."
The melody ended.
Outside, the clock struck one.
And the city slept on, never knowing that a single forgotten memory had awakened.
---