🏺 The Gift Shop By Iggy the Dwarf

The gift shop was not at the end of the museum. It was at the beginning. Before the fossils. Before the war dioramas. Before the room of silence.

It stood alone, humming faintly beneath fluorescent lights, stocked with objects that did not belong to any exhibit.

There were no price tags. Only labels.

• “A memory you forgot to have.”

• “A question your grandfather never asked.”

• “A map of a city that never existed.”

• “A receipt for a transaction that never occurred.”

Iggy the Dwarf worked there, though no one had hired him. He dusted the shelves with a brush made of crow feathers. He rearranged the objects according to mood, not category. He spoke only when spoken to, and even then, only in riddles.

One day, a visitor entered. She was looking for a souvenir.

“I’d like something to remember this place,” she said.

Iggy blinked. “You haven’t been here yet.”

“But I’m here now.”

“No,” he said, “you’re still arriving.”

He handed her a small box. Inside was a single word: afterward.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“It hasn’t happened yet.”

She left without paying. There was no register. Only a ledger, pulsing faintly beneath the counter.

Iggy opened it. The word afterward had already been recorded.

The Receipt that Wasn't