By Jill Hand
The shop exists. I’ve never been there, but I’ve been assured that it exists by people whom I trust. They found the shop and perhaps someday you will too.
It’s not easy to find, the Shop of Lost Things. It has no fixed location, appearing one day between a bakery and a dry cleaner in a sleepy town by a river in upstate New York and the next it may be in Cairo, or Helsinki, or anywhere in between.
Type “Shop of Lost Things” into your computer’s search engine and you’ll get several results, but you won’t find the real Shop of Lost Things. It has no online presence and if, once having found it, you go back and look for it again, it will be gone. The building where it was will either be empty, its windows dusty, displaying a scattering of dead bugs and a yellowing poster from last summer’s firemen’s fair, or it will be transformed into a chic little boutique that sells Italian cashmere scarves and ridiculously expensive fountain pens.