Of Dragons and Bedsheets
A cozy bookstore. A locked door. A dangerous invitation.
Elenna wasn’t trying to find the bookstore.
She only wanted shelter from the drizzle, her cloak already soaked, boots leaking cold through worn seams. The street narrowed into a crooked lane behind the cathedral, and that’s when she saw it—a small, timber-framed building with leaded windows fogged from within and a handwritten sign swinging above the door.
BOOKS.
That was all it said.
She pushed the door open. A bell chimed softly, and warmth wrapped around her like a shawl. The air smelled of wood polish, old paper, and something sweet—maybe cinnamon?
Inside: chaos. Cozy, wonderful chaos. Piles of books, shelves packed tight, spines cracked and gold-lettered, a ladder leaning against the wall with more shelves climbing to the rafters. A fire popped in the hearth. A tabby cat blinked at her from atop a teetering tower of hardcovers.
Behind the counter, a bespectacled man looked up from his book and smiled.
“Ah,” he said, as if greeting a long-lost friend. “Welcome back.”
She had never been here before. But she came back the next day. And the next. And again. Always leaving with more books than she could carry. Her room filled with them. Her purse emptied.
And then—one rainy morning—the bookstore was closed.
A sign hung on the door:
“Closed for restocking.”
Beneath it, in much smaller letters:
“Deliveries round the back.”
The Back Door
It wasn’t curiosity that drove Elenna to the alley.
It was need.
The bookstore had become her refuge, her retreat, her happy place. And now it was barred. She tiptoed around puddles, found a narrow alley with a mossy brick wall, and a plain wooden door beneath a guttering lantern. A sign read:
“Deliverers only. No access for customers.”
A round window offered a glimpse inside—paper, ink bottles, quills. Odd for a shop that only sold books.
She hesitated.
The door opened.
A woman stood there, tall and grey-haired, wearing a red shawl and spectacles on a chain. She looked Elenna up and down and nodded.
“Good. You’re here. Come in.”
The Room of Writers
“I’m sorry,” Elenna stammered. “I’m not here to deliver anything, I—”
“Oh, you are now,” said the woman briskly, leading her inside.
The room she entered was not vast, but it felt full—tables packed close, each one occupied by someone bent over parchment, scratching with quills or dipping reed pens into ink. The air was thick with candle smoke and quiet urgency, like the world might unravel if anyone stopped writing.
“Everyone delivers ten books,” said the woman. “Five for a meal. Ten for freedom. You’ll find tea at the back, and shower tokens by the door. Speak only of writing. The stories come quicker when no one talks too much.”
Elenna blinked. “Writing? I came to buy books.”
“Where do you think books come from, girl?” The woman raised an eyebrow. “We don’t pluck them from trees.”
A seat opened. The woman pointed. “You may begin.”
First Words
For hours—or days—she sat. Stared at the blank page.
Until she saw it.
A tiny bird, perched at the high window. Rain on its wings. Head cocked. Free.
She wrote.
A story about the bird. Its flight. Its song. Its cage. Her cage.
She wrote until her wrist ached, until ink smudged her fingertips, until her first book was finished.
Then came another. A tale of a girl who sewed the sky back together after the stars fell. A story about a kitchen that cooked memories. A dragon made of smoke who whispered truths no one wanted to hear.
Each book poured from her like breath she didn’t know she was holding.
The Shower of Ideas
She ran dry.
They handed her a shower token.
The bathroom smelled of lavender and soap and secrets. Notebooks on every surface. Even inside the shower—waterproof ink, a waxy sketchpad hanging by a string.
The moment warm water hit her skin, ideas bloomed.
A forest that dreamt. A lover turned to fog. A mirror that refused to reflect liars.
She wrote on the walls. On her arms. On the misted mirror.
She stepped out shivering, triumphant.
The Courtyard
After five books, they gave her a meal—warm bread, sharp cheese, something sweet with figs—and then they let her into the courtyard.
It was spring there, though she'd arrived in autumn. Bees hummed. Blossoms swayed. Golden light crept over the high stone walls, warming the quiet garden within.
Readers wandered, some holding pages—her pages.
A woman on a bench frowned as she read. Another scratched notes with a grimace.
Elenna’s stomach knotted.
“Your story starts strong,” someone said. “But it’s no Dragons and Bedsheets.”
She turned. “What?”
“Oh, haven’t you read it?” The woman held up a thick volume. “It’s the only thing anyone wants right now.”
Elenna skimmed a page. Purple prose. The heroine was already swooning over her enemy’s abs before the plot even woke up. Smoldering stares, emotionally immature dragons, and enough silk bedsheets to curtain a palace. It read like someone had spilled glitter over a battlefield and called it plot.
“I can do better,” she whispered.
An idea sparked in her chest. A real one.
Something new. Something hers.
The Return
She didn’t wait for the break to end.
She ran back to her table. Tore into a fresh page.
Her pen danced.
By the time her tenth book was done, she barely remembered what day it was. Her fingers cramped. Her eyes ached.
But she was proud.
The grey-haired woman appeared.
“Well done,” she said. “Your ten books are complete. You’re free to go.”
Elenna clutched her stack. “Will they… will people read them?”
The woman hesitated. “They might.”
Elenna looked down. “But?”
“Well, Of Dragons and Bedsheets is still flying off the shelves,” the woman said, not unkindly. “Yours are a harder sell. Fewer bedsheets. Fewer… dragons.”
Elenna frowned. “That’s not what stories are made of.”
“Perhaps not,” said the woman. “But it’s what sells.”
Once a Writer
Elenna stepped outside.
Sunlight warmed her cheeks. The city was bright and humming—window boxes overflowed with blooms, pastry carts sent sugary scents swirling through the air, and the bell tower struck noon with a mellow chime.
She wandered home through streets that felt newly alive.
Her little room was exactly as she’d left it: cozy, cluttered, safe. Her books leaned lazily in their stacks, content to nap until she returned. She ran a hand over their spines, then flopped onto her bed with a sigh of real comfort.
That night, she slept like a stone—no dreams, no stories, no voices whispering from the page.
In the morning, she made a sweet breakfast of honeyed bread and sliced apples, with hot tea steeped strong. She lingered over it, sun streaming through the window, the world for once content to be still.
And yet…
By midday, she found herself walking the familiar lane.
She passed the bookstore’s front window.
There sat Of Dragons and Bedsheets, center display—its deep purple leather cover stamped in gold filigree. Stacks of it. Everywhere.
She stepped closer, looking past it, hoping for a glimpse of her own stories.
Nothing.
She stood there for a long time.
Then turned away.
Not toward home.
Toward the alley.
The back door stood open. The woman waited.
Elenna didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
The woman handed her a stack of blank paper.
“I knew you’d come back,” she said, and smiled.
The door clicked shut behind her.
The End.
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This spreads the word and keeps me writing new stories every day! 🙏
Very enjoyable! Cozy but still with a certain edge to it.
This was such a warm, cozy tale. I was drawn into it, and it made me want to write and read. I remembered how much I love books, and how I’m a writer who can’t stop writing. I have to persevere. It was a good reminder for me. Thank you