The pen trembles in my hand. Just a small quiver, barely visible, but I feel it all the way up to my shoulder. My fingers clamp tighter round the barrel, as if it’s a lifeline—or the last chance to back out.
The tenancy agreement lies in front of me on the dusty counter. Three pages, densely printed, legally watertight. Everything correct. Everything binding. The letters blur briefly before my eyes, and I blink until they sharpen again. I’ve read the contract three times. Four times. I know every paragraph, every clause, every bloody footnote.
But now, with the pen in my hand, it feels like I’m about to jump off a cliff.
I breathe in. The air is freezing, bites into my lungs. It smells of dust and old wood, of years when no one was here. Of neglect and cold. The windows are thick with condensation, and outside the snow falls—large, heavy flakes piling up on the sills. The light that filters through is grey and weary, winter-weary, as though even the sun has given up fighting the cold.
The room echoes empty. My footsteps from earlier—when I paced nervously, measured the walls, imagined how it might look—the echo hasn’t quite faded yet.
Mrs Kincaid, the landlady, stands on the other side of the counter and waits. She says nothing, but her eyes rest on me, sharp and watchful as a bird of prey. She’s a small, wiry woman with grey hair scraped severely back, and a voice that sounds as though she’s spent a lifetime speaking into the wind. Her woollen hat sits beside her on the counter, snowflakes melting into dark patches.
She’s already laid the keys out for me—a small bundle, old, the metal rings tarnished. They lie there like a challenge.
“Miss Muir?” she says eventually. Not impatient, but firm. “If you’ve still got questions, now’s the moment. I need to do my shopping before the snow gets worse.”
I shake my head. “No. No questions.”
“Then sign.”
Sign.
I set the pen to paper. My name forms letter by letter, slowly, deliberately, as though I’m writing it for the first time: Hazel Muir. The handwriting looks steadier than I feel. More controlled. As though it belongs to someone else.
Done.
I put the pen down. My hand burns, as though I’ve lifted something heavy. Perhaps I have. Mrs Kincaid takes the contract, folds it with a precision that feels almost clinical, and tucks it into her battered leather bag. Then she pushes the keys across the counter towards me. The metal is icy, and I feel the cold through my gloves.
“That’s that, then,” she says. “From the first, the shop’s yours, Miss Muir.”
Not mine. I’m only renting it. But I nod anyway, because in this moment it feels as though I’m owning something. Something bigger than a contract.
“Thank you,” I say. My voice sounds thin, brittle, and I clear my throat. “I mean it. Thank you.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods. Her eyes aren’t unkind, but they’re realistic—the eyes of someone who’s seen too many failed dreams. “Good luck,” she says, and it sounds genuine. “You’ll need it. Especially now in winter. Folk prefer to stay home when it’s cold.”
“I know.”
“Good. As long as you know.”
Then she’s gone. The door swings shut behind her, and the bell—rusted, silent for years—makes no sound. An icy draught sweeps in before the door closes, and I shiver.
I’m alone.
I stand there, keys in hand, and listen as her footsteps fade on the pavement, muffled by the snow. A car drives past, slow, cautious on the snowy road. Then it’s silent. So silent I can hear my own breath, shallow and quick, as though I’ve just finished sprinting.
I turn slowly and look round the room. The walls are bare, paint peeling at the corners. Damp has settled in the upper angles, dark stains like shadows. On the left, a nook, big enough for one shelf—or two, if I’m clever. On the right, a window onto the street, the glass so fogged I can barely see through. I wipe my sleeve across it, and outside Glencoe appears: the high street, a few parked cars half buried in snow, the mountains in the background like a painted backdrop, white and massive and immovable.
The snow falls thicker now, swirling in the wind, settling over everything like a blanket.
This is where it’s meant to happen. This is where Once Upon a Shelf is meant to begin.
I speak the name aloud, very softly, just for myself. “Once Upon a Shelf.”
It tastes of promise. Of something I owe myself. Of a beginning that’s been waiting for me far too long. My breath condenses in the air, small white clouds that vanish quickly.
I close my eyes and see it: shelves, floor to ceiling, crammed with stories. Books stacked neatly but not sterile—sorted by feeling, not alphabet. A recommendation wall at the back, handwritten, personal, with little notes: If you liked this, try this. An armchair in the corner, worn, with a thick wool throw over it, comfortable enough that people will want to stay, even when it’s snowing outside. Tea for those who have time. And a bell on the door that rings when someone comes in—when they stumble inside from the cold, snow on their shoulders, red noses, searching for warmth.
If someone comes.
The “if” sits in my stomach like a stone.
I open my eyes again. The room is still empty. The vision dissolves, and what’s left is only reality: freezing air, dusty floors, fogged windows. No heating—the old heater’s broken, Mrs Kincaid told me, and the repair’s down to me. It feels as though I’ve just seen a mountain and convinced myself I could climb it—and now I’m standing at the foot and only realising how steep it truly is. And how cold.
I pull my scarf tighter, breathe into my hands. My fingers are numb, and I tuck them under my armpits to warm them.
I take my phone from my pocket and scroll through the notes. The list is long, too long perhaps, but I’ve been over it so many times I know it by heart.
Rent: £850/month.
Get heating fixed: £600 (urgent!).
Renovation (paint, floor, electrical check): £2,500.
Shelving (second-hand, assemble myself): £800.
Initial stock (books, pre-orders, small press contacts): £5,000.
Running costs (electricity, heating, internet): £350/month (winter more expensive).
Emergency reserve (first three months without profit): £3,500.
I work through it in my head, again and again, as though the sum might change if I just look often enough. But it doesn’t change. It stays stubborn, unyielding, real.
£19,100.
Without the loan, it won’t work. Without the bank the shop stays empty, and my dream remains what it’s always been: a nice idea that never becomes reality. And in winter—in winter everything’s harder. More expensive. Colder.
I open my emails. The inbox is full—newsletters, spam, a message from my mum I’ll read later. But nothing from the bank. I refresh. Still nothing.
The knot in my chest pulls tighter.
I put the phone away and walk to the window. I wipe the glass again, and outside I see a woman struggling past with a pushchair, her head bent against the wind. The pushchair slips on the ice, and she grips tighter. A dog strains at its lead, snuffling in the snow. The café opposite has its lights on, windows fogged, warm and inviting. Life. Everyday life. I want to be part of it. I want people to come in here, to see the shop and think: This belongs here.
But first I have to manage to open it. And I have to manage to fix the heating, or this’ll just be a fridge full of books.
I lean my forehead against the cold glass and close my eyes. The frost creeps through the pane, bites into my skin.
Aberdeen. The word surfaces like a reflex, unbidden, and with it the memories. I see the office: glass and chrome, the air conditioning always too cold in summer, the heating always too hot in winter, the coffee from the machine always too bitter. My desk was tidy, always. The press releases lay neatly stacked, every sentence polished to a shine, every message so smooth it seemed harmless. Sustainable energy policy. Responsible investment. Future-focused solutions.
Lies.
Not all of them. But enough that I’d lie awake at night wondering whether I was doing the right thing—or just the convenient thing. Whether I stood for something or just for a salary.
I remember a meeting. It was December, already dark by four in the afternoon. The conference room on the twelfth floor, view over the harbour, the cranes like skeletons against the grey sky, hail falling on the water and vanishing instantly. My boss—angular face, expensive watch, voice like polished metal—talked about “image management” and “stakeholder relations.” I took notes, nodded, smiled at the right times. Outside a winter storm raged, and I sat there in my warm office and felt something inside me grow smaller.
The money was good. Very good. I could afford a nice flat, with central heating and double-glazed windows. Holidays to warm countries, away from Scottish cold. Clothes I never wore. But it felt as though I was selling myself piece by piece. As though every day I lost a little more of what made me myself.
Eventually there was nothing left that felt real.
So I left. Middle of winter. No big scene, no dramatic resignation. Just a conversation, polite and matter-of-fact, and then the box with my things that I carried through the snow to the car. My colleagues looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. Give up a good job in winter? Are you mad?
Maybe I am.
But I couldn’t any more.
I open my eyes and see my reflection in the window: blurred, pale, uncertain, framed by frost. I look like someone who doesn’t yet know if she’s right.
My phone buzzes.
I flinch as though someone’s nudged me. My heart hammers, loud and painful against my ribs, as I pull the phone from my pocket. My fingers are numb with cold—or fear, I’m not sure which.
Email. Bank of Scotland.
I swallow. My mouth is dry. I stare at the subject line, don’t dare tap it.
Then I do.
Dear Miss Muir,
Thank you for your loan application of 10 January. Following review of your documentation, we require further information regarding site analysis and the long-term viability of your proposed venture.
A specialist from our office will visit you on site to conduct a final assessment.
Appointment: 20 January, 10:00, Glencoe.
Please note current weather forecasts. In the event of adverse conditions, the appointment may be postponed.
Assessor’s name: William Cairns.
Please have all relevant documentation ready.
Yours sincerely,
Bank of Scotland, Business Customer Services
I read the message twice. Then a third time. Every word embeds itself, hard and clear as a stamp.
An assessor.
The word sits like a splinter. Not “adviser.” Not “contact person.” Assessor.
William Cairns.
I don’t know the name. But I know the tone. Factual. Neutral. Final. This isn’t a conversation. This is an inspection.
I put the phone away and lean against the windowsill. The cold seeps through my jeans, creeps into my bones. Outside it’s getting darker, though it’s only three in the afternoon. Winter swallows the light so early here. The mountains blur into the snowstorm.
An assessor. Here. In six days.
He’ll come here, walk through this empty, freezing room, see my figures—and then he’ll decide. Whether my dream is realistic. Whether I’m worth it. Whether Once Upon a Shelf deserves a chance or is just another failed idea.
Whether I’m mad to open a bookshop in winter.
I press my palms against the sill, feel the rough wood, the cracks and notches, the cold that’s settled into it. Everything here is old, worn, brittle.
But it’s still standing.
I close my eyes and think of the books I read as a child. Of the stories that saved me when home was all grey and silent. My parents weren’t cruel, just… absent. Busy. Practical. Books were a waste of time, they said. Dreams were for people who could afford them.
But the books showed me there was more. That you don’t have to stay where you are. That you can choose.
I remember a winter when I was ten. It had snowed for days, and school was closed. I sat in the library—the only warm place besides home—wrapped in my coat, and read The Secret Garden. Outside everything was white and cold, but on the pages it was spring. On the pages something grew.
And I knew: I want that too. I want a place where things can grow, even in winter.
Once Upon a Shelf.
This isn’t a hobby. This isn’t a luxury.
This is my home. This is the place where I finally feel right.
I open my eyes. Outside the snow falls thicker now, the flakes large and heavy. The mountains are only shadows. The road vanishes beneath white.
William Cairns.
I’ll be ready.
I have to be.
I pull my coat tighter, take the keys, and walk to the door. Before I leave, I turn once more, see the empty room, the bare walls, the fogged window.
“I can do this,” I say aloud. My voice echoes in the emptiness.
Then I step out into the snow.
