🏪 The Store Where Nothing Is For Sale

If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

If I opened a shop, it wouldn’t sell anything.

It would offer something people forgot they were allowed to need:

Time. Stillness. Witnessing. Truth.

There’d be no cash register—only a quiet figure at the door asking,

What are you carrying that isn’t yours?

And you’d pause.

Because no one has asked you that before.

Inside, there would be:

* A worn table where you could sit and not be interrupted.

* A wall where you could pin a thought no one understood until now.

* A mirror that didn’t distort.

* A shelf of books that don’t tell you how to fix yourself – just how to remember.

You’d leave with nothing in your hands.

But a little more space in your heart.

Because this shop doesn’t sell.

It invites.

And the only thing it ever runs out of

is the belief that you were too broken to begin again.

That’s the thing.

It’s not about commerce. It’s about communion.

A place where the currency is truth,

and the offering is presence.

No receipts.

Just a quiet soul saying:

“You’re not too much. You’re just not being heard in the right place.”

And maybe that’s the shop we’re all looking for—

not to buy something new,

but to finally return to what we never should’ve had to leave behind.

This reflection responds to the Daily Prompt:

“If you were going to open a shop, what would you sell?”

And to the deeper inquiry behind it:

“What do people truly need—but can’t find on shelves?”

— from the soft-lit storefront of Hellènic Muse