The bookstore between

Only someone who truly adored books could tell the difference between a hardback and a paperback by scent alone—a gift that belonged to Poppy.

Poppy was in heaven the moment she stepped inside the antique bookstore. She inhaled deeply, savouring the papery, woody notes that welcomed her; a comforting change from the bitter smell of soggy cigarettes lingering outside.

At the far wall, an open fireplace glowed amber and gold, promising warmth. Her skin longed for its heat—anything to thaw the frigid chill numbing her fingertips. Anything to soothe the grief that was always threatening to overtake.

Grand mahogany shelves lined the four walls, overflowing with mismatched books. Poppy hopped carefully across the room. Avoiding the precariously leaning towers of books and their scents that demanded her attention. She leaned in, filling her lungs with their coiling smells. Some titles were old and disintegrating; they reeked of ashen regret. Others were new and shiny, carrying memories of summer and fresh strawberries. It all felt familiar—somehow.

An aged postcard peeked out from the dog-eared pages of a well-loved book. Poppy sighed. Grief welled in the corners of her eyes. Her Grandma used anything within her reach as a bookmark—tickets, receipts, postcards—she’d even been known to use the odd fridge magnet.

She smiled sadly and read the cursive aloud. “With love from Sweden.” The creased postcard showed a maypole. With young girls in flowing white dancing, pale ribbons streaming from their hands. A reminder to Poppy that her Grandma Lyn had booked tickets to experience ‘a real midsummer festival’ in Sweden.

Every June 24th, Grandma would complain about the depressing cold and rain. She’d stand suddenly with raised fists, declaring, “It’s unfair! My cousins get sun and strawberries while I’m stuck in this dreadful Melbourne winter!”

Later, she’d weave daffodil flowers into a crown and wrap Poppy in a white sheet, insisting, “This is the Australian version.” They’d picnic in the garden, drinking lukewarm tea by candlelight—even though it was freezing outside. “It’s Midsummer,” she would say, attempting to braid Poppy’s fiery red mane. “And on Midsummer’s Eve, we dance and remember.”

A lone tear trailed down Poppy’s cheek at the memory. Dusty air thickened in her throat. The image of a large black coffin, lowered inch by inch into the dark earth, filled her vision.

She collapsed onto the red velvet settee. Trailing her fingers over the glass mosaic lamp beside her, when—the spicy aroma of cinnamon wafted by, as if carried on a summer breeze. It wrapped around Poppy like a comforting hug, replacing memories of the funeral with ones of wrinkled hands serving hibiscus tea in chipped china.

Poppy wiped away her tear, chuckling lightly. Grandma Lyn was always up to trouble. She’d sneak downstairs in the middle of the night to wake a bleary-eyed Poppy. They’d gossip, huddled around the wood fire stove, always with cinnamon bickies.

“Ah, you finally made it inside,” a voice chided.

Poppy jumped, heart fluttering in her chest.

“Took you six months,” the voice called, dripping in familiar sarcasm. “You’re just like that hot-headed mother of yours—fashionably late.”

Poppy whipped around. A brightly dressed older woman stood sorting through books, tossing another onto the growing pile. Dust flecks flew into the air, glimmering in the firelight that danced along the walls.

Poppy blinked, wiping at her eyes. She looked again: glossy red gumboots paired with a zebra-print pantsuit. Recognisable anywhere.

“This is not real.” It slipped out more like a question. “It can’t be.”

The woman turned. Her wizened face wore a soft smile. Pale blue eyes, framed behind black-rimmed glasses. Crinkly, red-painted lips. Unmistakable. The name she’d screamed into her pillow, so no one could hear.

Grandma Lyn.

Poppy faltered. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. She took one hesitant step forward, then stopped—overwhelmed.

Everything broke.

All at once.

All over again.

Tears of grief she’d bottled for six months shattered free. The salt of tears burned in her nose, pooling on her lips. Grandma Lyn sprang into action, wrapping her tight, pulling her against a chest that smelled of cinnamon and brown sugar.

“Oh, Pops,” she murmured. “Let it all out. You cry all you need to.”

Poppy beat half-heartedly against her Grandmother’s chest. “You died. You’re…you’re dead.” Even saying the words tasted foul in her mouth. The word death smelled like dirt, felt gritty under her nails. The same way it had when she threw that handful of soil over the coffin. Grandma always said Poppy’s heightened senses were a gift—a blessing from the ancestors. But now, it only felt like a burden.

“Yes, yes, I died,” Grandma whispered. “Look at me, Poppy.” For the first time, Poppy noticed the softened, hazy edges around her grandma’s body.

“Am I dreaming?” Poppy asked.

Grandma Lyn exhaled and chuckled. “Does it matter?”

Poppy chewed the inside of her mouth. A part of her hoped. Grandma had the gift of reading dreams. Maybe this place was—“Tell me what you smell,” Grandma Lyn said, her tone suddenly sharp.

Poppy closed her eyes, breathing in the air around, focusing on each note, just as Grandma had taught her. There was the caress of cinnamon, the stench of dirt, the soft kiss of sugar and—something else. Something she wasn’t ready to face. Her eyes flew open. Poppy saw the understanding in her grandma's gaze.

Though Grandma Lyn lacked Poppy’s unusual sense, she had long mastered the gift of reading her like an open book.

“You walk past here every night. Sometimes you reach for the handle. Other times, you stop. And just stare. You even opened the door once—only to scamper off like a frightened puppy. Always searching for me, stopping just shy of seeing me," Grandma said.

Poppy couldn’t bear the sternness etched on her face. Instead, she rested her head against Grandma Lyn’s chest, sagging further when the heartbeat that should be there—wasn’t.

Her Grandma was dead. Of that, there was no doubt.

“Poppy, you will never move on if you don’t name what you feel.” Grandma Lyn’s voice cracked, her chest vibrating with emotion against Poppy’s cheek.

“I taught you this.” Her voice grew louder. “I died, but you—You’ve stopped living! You don’t eat, you’re wasting away. Where’s that layer of good fat I put on those strong bones—from all my cinnamon cookies and all those lollies we passed under tables?”

“You were taken from me,” Poppy shouted, wiggling out of her grip. “I’m angry. I’m angry you’re gone. Angry Mum has moved on. Dating like you hadn’t just died. I’m angry at the stupid idiot who drank and drove. I’m angry you died alone, that I wasn’t there to hold your hand.”

Poppy was on a roll; she couldn’t stop now. Once she started naming things, more tumbled out. All the while, Grandma stood there, tapping her foot to an unheard rhythm. “Are you done? You’re good at naming everything, but the one—”

“Fear.” Poppy’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Grandma nodded, her shoulders relaxing. “Yes, Pops—fear.”

“I’m scared.” Poppy blinked back tears. “I’m scared to be alone. Scared that Mum and I won’t get along. Scared that Dad will grow bored with me when his baby’s born. Scared of myself, of my gifts.” The faint metallic smell that had stalked her waking and dreaming strengthened. The chemical tang searing inside her nose.

“Let me show you something,” Grandma said, offering her hand for Poppy to take. They wove among the stacks of books, dodging the giant dangling chandelier shaped like an upside-down umbrella. Grandma gestured to the books lining every inch of the wall. “This is me.” She ran her fingers over the spines, pulling out a green book. Perfect cursive handwriting graced the yellowed pages inside.

Poppy read the first line aloud. “Today, I hissed at Mother like a feral cat. She’s always pushing me to practice, practice, practice. I hate this gift. I would give my left arm, I’m right-handed anyway, to have one night’s sleep without seeing someone else’s nightmare.”

Grandma slammed the book shut, sending paper dust straight into Poppy’s nose. The citrusy dust of a hardback and the coppery smell of fear blended, burning the back of Poppy’s throat. She erupted into a coughing fit. Grandma gave her two firm whacks, expelling the last of the stench.

“You see nightmares?” Poppy furrowed her brows, rummaging through past conversations.

Grandma pushed the book into its place. “Since I was five. Though in death, the only nightmares I seem to see are yours—and my rascal daughter's.”

Poppy jerked. “Mum? Mum has nightmares?”

"Every single night."

For the first time, it was Grandma’s lips that twitched, her eyes that welled with tears. “Pops, I can’t take it. You’ve both made me your nightmare. I’m not a boogeyman. I’m just dead.”

“You’re stuck, grieving a future you can’t have.” She tapped Poppy’s forehead. “But, I’m still here. I’ll always be here if you remember me. Stop closing the door on anything that could make you happy.” She lifted Poppy’s chin to meet her gaze. “Pops, eat those cinnamon cookies. Weave a flower crown or two. Talk with your Mumma—she’s hurting too.”

Grandma smirked, “In fact, if not for those new sleeping pills, Anna pops like Tic Tacs, I’d be setting her straight myself tonight.”

Poppy flung her arms around her Grandma’s lean form, snuggling her nose against the smell of summer. She’d never thought her withdrawing was hurting anyone—she didn’t want to hurt anyone, least of all Grandma.

“I’m sorry,” Poppy cried. “I don’t know how to move on, how to piece it back together now that you’re missing.”

Grandma pulled Poppy back enough to wipe away her tears with a warm handkerchief. The kind she always kept tucked inside her bra. “Pops, it starts with one day at a time. One step at a time.” She flicked Poppy’s nose, making her laugh. “It starts with talking—not hiding—and eating. Dear God, I can feel your bones.”

A golden ray speared through the front door. The door eased open; a fresh scent squeezed through, buzzing excitedly around the room. A scent Poppy could only describe as the future. Then a tug. Soft but increasing in strength. Poppy knew, somewhere deep down, that it meant it was time to go. Grandma nodded, as if feeling it too. They were in different places now. Poppy on Earth, and Grandma—wherever this was.

“Come here,” she pulled Poppy into another hug; this one held finality. However, there were no tears. Just the delicate floral aroma of love and cinnamon.

Poppy gave the room one last look, unable to ignore the tug calling her home anymore. Her gaze snagged on the label above the shelves.

Adventure. Magical realism. Drama—there was a bit of that. She turned slowly, Thriller, Crime—interesting. Poetry. Romance—

“Really, Grandma? Romance is your biggest section? Didn’t you marry Grandpa at what, nineteen?”

Grandma steeled her shoulders, blushing a deep pink while pretending to ruffle invisible feathers. “The sixties were a wild time for a lot of people.”

“Speaking of Grandpa, where is he?”

Grandma raised one brow. “We were married for 46 years, Poppy… I suppose he’s off on some celestial fishing adventure, harassing some other poor soul with his muddy boots and bad tales. We always did have a good time. I’m sure I’ll bump into him again.”

They were always a very independent couple, Poppy supposed.

Grandma guided her toward the light emanating from the door.

“One last thing, Pop.” She handed Poppy a leather-bound journal, its pages blank.

“It’s your turn.”

With that, she shoved Poppy playfully out the door. Poppy laughed—a real one, for the first time—as she stepped out into the sunshine.