Journals of Unlived Lives

Viva arrived in the coastal town at the end of August, when the breeze still carried the weight of summer.

As she dragged her suitcase past salt-faded storefronts and wind-chimed porches, she reminded herself that this was temporary, that the visiting professorship would pass quickly.

She would return to her real life in the city soon, though she could not have said, if pressed, what exactly that real life was supposed to look like anymore. Most of the goals on her checklist were finally checked off.

When she graduated with her doctorate, the only one who came to see her was her mother. Oh her sweet, loving mother. At least she was when she wasn't throwing passive jabs at Viva for not procuring her a child quick enough.

What she really wanted was for someone to share future accomplishments with, where she didn't have to feel so alone all the time. A child, maybe one day, but with no one around it wasn't even a thought.

Of course, she didn't mind the solitude and actually thrived in it. But she knew she would be lying to herself if she didn't want to enjoy a few moments of companionship once in a while.

The university sat just far enough inland to escape the constant breath of the ocean. It was on one of her evening drives, after a long afternoon of lectures about narrative structure and unrealized endings, that she found the bookstore.

At first glance, it looked disheveled. Its wooden sign was bleached pale by the sun, and its front windows cluttered with uneven stacks of books and handwritten notes that had begun to curl at the edges.

There was a crystalline bell above the door that rang when she pushed it open, though the sound felt strangely delayed, as if it had needed a moment to remember how.

Inside, a voice called out from somewhere behind a leaning tower of paperback novels.

“Well, aren’t you a bright one,” the woman said, appearing as if she had simply unfolded herself from the space between shelves.

Her white hair pinned up in a way that suggested both intention and forgetfulness, wisps escaping a face that seemed permanently sculpted by kindness, “you’ve got the look of someone who reads things all the way through.”

Viva smiled politely, adjusting the strap of her bag as she glanced around, noticing a small wooden box near the counter overflowing with loose bills and coins, entirely unattended, as a cat lounged beside it, batting lazily at a stack of bookmarks until they slipped onto the floor.

“I teach literature,” Viva said, and the woman’s eyes lit up with a kind of delighted recognition.

“Oh, goodness, that explains it,” she replied, clasping her hands together, “you must come see the back room, then, I always say educators are the only ones who really understand what’s worth keeping.”

The room in the back was unlike the rest of the shop and along the walls were shelves lined not with printed books but with journals, diaries, notebooks of every size and age, their covers worn soft by time.

“These,” the woman said, her voice lowering in reverence, “are lives people chose to leave behind.”

Viva turned slowly, taking it in, her fingers brushing the spine of a weathered leather journal, hesitant.

“They’re all donated,” the woman continued, stepping closer, “given willingly, with the understanding that someone else might one day read them, might carry a piece of them forward, which I think is a rather lovely idea, don’t you?”

Viva nodded, though something in her chest tightened as she picked up one of the journals, the pages thick and uneven, and when she opened it—

The room shifted as if someone had moved.

A teacup on a nearby table grew warm beneath her hand, though she had not touched it, and the arrival of a thought that did not belong to her.

Peppermint in the evening makes everything better.

Viva snapped the journal shut, her heartbeat quickening as she stepped back, and the warmth vanished, the room settling again into stillness.

“Oh,” the woman said gently, as if this reaction was expected, “yes, that happens sometimes.”

“What—what was that?” Viva asked, her voice more anxious than she intended, her gaze flicking toward the objects around her as if they might move again.

“Just memories,” the woman replied, smiling in a way that was both reassuring and slightly amused, “relics of the past, nothing to be afraid of, darling, they only stir when someone is paying attention.”

Viva swallowed, her grip tightening on the journal.

“They felt… alive.”

“They were once,” the woman said simply, “and perhaps, they still are.”

She picked up another journal, one that was leather bound, with a small anchor design on the bottom left. A glass bottle on the shelf spun when she opened it.

The sea is vast and I don't know when I will arrive home.

“They are all different,” the woman said simply, “some of them harbor deeper thoughts and others like to talk about their favorite colors.”

“That's frightening...and fascinating.” Viva exhaled.

“The best things in life usually are. Any other person would have run out that door and branded me a witch. But I'm not the one doing anything.” She shrugged.

Viva spent a few hours flipping through the journals, each one more intriguing than the next.

The Bookstore's Accountant

Elbis arrived that evening, stepping into the shop with a confident gait that suggested he had done so many times before, his presence reserved, and the woman behind the counter looked up immediately, her face brightening.

“Elby,” she called, as if the name had been waiting for him, “you’re late, and I’ve already lost track of the register again.”

He smiled, the expression soft and a little apologetic, as he moved behind the counter, gently reorganizing the scattered bills and coins with practiced ease.

“I told you to keep it closed Mrs. Savitri,” he said, though there was no real reprimand in his tone, only a kind of fond resignation.

She turned to Viva, who lingered nearby, “this is Elbis, though I’ve never once called him that in my life, and he pretends not to mind.”

Elbis glanced up then, his hazel pools curiously meeting Viva’s own, curious but not intrusive.

“You’re a new customer here,” he said.

“She's in education,” the woman added, as if this explained everything.

“Ah,” he replied, nodding slightly, “that does explain it.”

Viva found herself smiling again, though her thoughts drifted back to the room, to the warmth of the teacup.

“You’ve been back there,” Elbis said, not as a question.

“Yes,” she admitted, studying him, “and I… don’t understand it.”

He paused, considering his words carefully, as if he had had this conversation many times before.

“I’m not sure anyone who ever experiences does,” he said, “but I wouldn’t call it magic.”

“What would you call it?”

“A thing the brain does,” he replied, after a moment, “residual, maybe, something tied to the act of being read, like… like a cognitive pattern that reactivates under the right conditions. Possibly some behavior of wayward electricity and frequencies… among other things.”

Viva raised an eyebrow.

“That sounds like a very assured way of saying you don’t know.”

He smiled, a little sheepishly, his gaze moving from her lips to her eyes.

“You got me there.”