As I pulled my gray toque farther down over my ears, my mittens struggling to find a grip on the soft fabric, I stepped toward the building. To know what was in the shop you had to go inside; the patina of dust on the front window was thick, but once I thought I made out the shape of an owl on the other side of the glass, its wings lifted in frozen flight. But that was weeks ago, and for all I knew, the shop had changed. After all, that's what everyone said, that the shop changed its design when it felt like it. My friends said the shop had a personality of it's own, that no one could control. I hadn't been inside, but the small, quiet building had piqued my curiosity. People said it was huge, much bigger on the inside than on the outside, with walls and walls of merchandise.
Before I reached the window, I looked back at the snowy street. Snowflakes were falling silently, as if they were afraid of waking the rest of the world. The street lamps threw circles of light onto the ground, stirring up shadows and light together. The occasional houses had soft glows in the window, but most were dark and quiet. I trailed my hand across the smooth glass of the window, wiping my hand across the dust on the outside, peering into the yawning blackness, trying to make out something that would clue me into whatever it was I was about to see. As usual, the dust and frost were too thick to make out much. I turned and walked quickly towards the door. My hand rested on the knob, hesitating, before I turned it, pushing the door open.
I stepped inside, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dim lighting. Ahead of me stood rows and rows of books, all covered in dust. My eyes darted everywhere, trying to take it all in. I hesitantly stepped forward, then quickened my pace, my footsteps echoing off the surrounding shelves. Although the shelves were tall, they weren't long, and I soon approached the end of a row. I stopped in the middle of an intersection, a soft light glowing in the corner of my eye. I stepped towards it. I peered around the corner, my eyes widening. An old 1960s-styles London police box stood beside a shelf, a tall young man standing beside it, flipping through a book. Barely breathing, I watched him. As if sensing my presence, he snapped his gaze up from the book and to me. Confusion crossed his face. "How'd you get in?" He asked, his British accent echoing around me. "Th-the door was open." I stammered. He squinted, his eyes searching my face. Then it brightened. " Oh, yes, that's right, you're…." He tapped forehead. "I thought you'd be here." I opened my mouth, than closed it. "I don't understand, who are you?" He grinned "I'm the doctor, and I need you're help."