The Magic Thrift Store

The Shop of Wonders

I, Lucía, often think back to my childhood, and every time I do, that secondhand shop appears before my eyes, like a cave of treasures, where my friends and I used to go after school. I was eleven years old, in fifth grade, and the world seemed full of mysteries. Together with my cousin Sofía and our friend Clara, we turned ordinary days into adventures, and that shop was our little secret, a place where every object held its own story. Even now, years later, when I close my eyes, I can see those shelves, smell the scent of the old books, and feel that childhood thrill that will never return.

That year, we were inseparable. Sofía, with her always messy pigtails, dreamed of being an archaeologist, while Clara, the most serious of the three, always carried a notebook in her backpack where she wrote “important thoughts.” I, Lucía, was a bit of both: I loved to imagine, sometimes believing myself to be the heroine of a book, other times an explorer. After school, we never rushed home; instead, we ran to the store on the corner of our street. It was old, with a worn sign and a door that creaked when opened, but to us, it was like Ali Baba’s cave, brimming with hidden treasures.

It wasn’t big, but inside it seemed endless. The shelves were crammed with antique candlesticks, worn books, lace dresses, clocks frozen in time. The owner, Doña Carmen, was always behind the counter, knitting and murmuring kindly, “Girls, don’t touch anything that isn’t yours.” But we didn’t play; we were explorers in search of wonders. Sofía once found a copper brooch in the shape of a scarab and swore it was the amulet of an Egyptian princess. Clara leafed through yellowed fashion magazines, dreaming of one day sewing a dress like it. I, on the other hand, adored the books, especially one with a worn cover about pirates. I dreamed of finding a treasure map hidden within its pages.

One cold November afternoon, we entered the shop again. Outside, the drizzle dampened the streets and our boots squelched, but inside, it smelled of dust and lavender. I immediately headed to my favorite shelf, while Sofia dragged Clara toward a box of costume jewelry. “Lucia, here!” Sofia shouted. “Look at this ring!” In her palm, a thin band with a green stone glittered, dull but charming. “It’s from a castle!” she declared. Clara, squinting, added, “Or from a countess’s chest.” We laughed, taking turns trying on the ring, and for a moment, I felt like I was in a fairy tale.

Doña Carmen, seeing our enthusiasm, approached with a smile. “Do you like it? It only costs five pesetas, girls. Bring it to me before someone else does.” Five pesetas! We only had enough in our pockets for the churros at recess, but we didn’t give up. “Let’s pool whatever we have!” I suggested. We emptied our coins: I had two pesetas, Sofía one and some loose change, Clara one and a half. It wasn’t enough, but we insisted. “Doña Carmen,” Sofía begged, “will you keep it for us? We’ll bring you the rest tomorrow!” She shook her head, but her eyes were smiling. “Okay, bring it to me, but tomorrow without fail.”

We left the store as if we had conquered a kingdom. The ring lay in Clara’s pocket, and we all touched it, convinced of its magic. That night, I couldn’t sleep, imagining it had belonged to a traveler who had crossed oceans. The next day, we paid the debt—I even gave up my snack to save my last few coins. Although the ring was later lost (Sofia swore she’d left it in her backpack), that illusion never left me.

That place wasn’t just a junk shop. It taught us to dream, to believe in the extraordinary, to find beauty in the ordinary. Over time, Sofía, Clara, and I grew up and took different paths: Sofía became a geologist, Clara a designer, and I a literature teacher. But every time we talk, someone always remembers: “Do you remember that shop?” And we laugh, as if we were eleven again, in front of those shelves full of stories.

Now I live in a big city, and there are hardly any places like that left. Sometimes I go into antique shops, but it’s not the same—too polished, without that magic. I miss the creaking of the door, Doña Carmen, our childhood fantasies. Recently, I found that book about pirates in a drawer. I opened it, breathed in its scent, and for a moment, I was that fifth-grade girl again. Perhaps that shop was our treasure, not for the objects, but for who we were inside it. And I thank fate for a childhood like that, with friends, with dreams, and with that corner of wonder that never left my heart.