Lia Declan's Musings

I have some sad news to share. On December 23rd, at five in the afternoon, my partner and I will lock the door of the bookshop for the last time.

I have written and deleted that sentence several times already. It looks simple on the screen, but it carries tears, hard work and hope and tired feet. Many of you already know that things have been hard for small shops for a long time. Some days the till stayed light. Some months the bills stacked up in a way that kept both of us awake at night. We kept going because we loved this place and the people who walked through the door. Love and effort have limits though, and we have reached ours.

When we opened the shop, we didn’t have a grand plan. We had shelves, a till, a lease, and the belief that a bookshop still mattered in a town like ours. We wanted a place where readers could come in, talk about what they enjoyed, and not feel rushed. We wanted a counter where we knew regulars by name and by taste. My partner and I built that together. We painted, we assembled furniture, we thrifted antique wingback chairs, we shifted boxes, and we argued over which sections needed more space. We stood shoulder to shoulder during late deliveries and quiet weeks and surprise busy days.

Over time, the shop became part of our routine as much as it became part of the town. One of us often opened while the other made coffee and handled emails. One of us ordered stock while the other rearranged displays. We swapped roles when one of us had a rough day. We worked together on a project until we both ached. We learned how to read each other across the room with a look. If you came in often, you probably saw that teamwork in action. It was not glamorous. It was actual work. It was ours.

You brought your own lives into that space as well. We watched children grow taller between the shelves. We watched teenagers become adults who kept coming back. We saw new relationships start and old ones end. We heard about job changes, illnesses, small victories, and heavy losses. Many of you spoke about those things while my partner or I rang up your books. Some of you came solely to share those stories with us, knowing you didn’t have to make a purchase to be heard. Those conversations didn’t show up on any balance sheet. They still mattered to us.

The shop also held my own writing. The first time I put one of my books on our shelf, my hands shook. My partner stood beside me and she made sure I didn’t back out. Some of you picked up those titles and trusted them enough to take them home. One reader later wrote that a book of mine was the “reason I am still alive.” I have read that line many times since. When I think about closing the shop, I keep that sentence close. It reminds me that stories can keep going in the world even when a door closes in one place.

People have already started to ask the hard question. Why close now? The honest answer is simple and dull. Costs went up. Online shopping grew stronger. Foot traffic changed. We have watched the numbers for a long time. We cut where we could. We worked longer hours than were sensible. We took less home than we should have. At a certain point, carrying on would have meant risking more than we were prepared to lose. That is not a dramatic story. It is just how the maths and our health worked out.

Knowing that does not remove the feelings. I will miss the sound of the bell when someone opens the door. I will miss watching you walk straight to your favourite section. I will miss the way my partner leans on the counter to talk with regulars and ends up deep in conversation about a book neither of us has read yet. I will miss the softer parts of the day when one of us works on the computer and the other makes bookmarks or decorations. Those rhythms shaped our days for a long time.

On December 23rd, we will go through our usual closing routine. We will straighten the tables. We will gather stray receipts and bookmarks. We will check the shelves out of habit. We will count the till. We have done those things so often that our hands can do them while our minds are somewhere else. This time, I expect our minds will stay very present. When everything is done, we will step outside, pull the door shut, and turn the key. We will stand there as partners, and we will know that this part of our shared work has ended, and something new is about to begin.

I do not know exactly what will come next. I know I will keep writing. I know my partner and I will keep finding ways to put stories into the world, even if it happens in different spaces and through different channels. I know we will need some time to rest and to remember that we are more than the people behind that counter. I also know that the times we spent in the shop will stay with us, and with many of you, in ways that never show up on paper.

If you have ever come in, thank you. If you have ever bought a book, asked for a recommendation, or brought a friend through the door, thank you. If you have ever stopped at the counter just to talk for a few minutes, thank you. You gave this place its life. You kept us going on days when the numbers did not make sense. You made the long hours worth it.

The shop is still open until five in the afternoon on December 23rd. If you want to visit one more time, we will be there, together, behind the counter. After that, the sign will come down, and this part of our story will end. The people who built it will still be here. So will the stories.