The Door That Only Opens for Tuesdays

There is a small green door at the back of Mr Halpern's bookshop. The door only opens on Tuesdays. Mira had been going to the bookshop with her papa every Saturday for months. She had asked Mr Halpern many, many times what was behind the green door. "On Tuesdays," he always said, with a small smile. Today was a Tuesday. Mira's papa had said yes. Mira had walked all the way to the bookshop on her own legs, very slowly, very carefully, all the while imagining what could be behind the door. A garden? A library? A small orchestra of mice playing the cello? When she arrived, Mr Halpern was waiting. He did not seem surprised that she had come. "Tuesday," he said. He took down a small brass key from a hook. He turned it in the lock of the green door. The door opened with the smallest possible click. Mira walked through. It was — a workshop. Mr Halpern's own workshop, where he repaired old books. There was a desk with a small lamp on it. There was a row of glass jars full of glue and thread and tiny brushes. There was a stack of old, sad books — torn covers, missing spines, foxed pages — and there was a finished pile, looking proud and put-together. That was all. There was no garden. There was no orchestra of mice. Mira felt a small disappointment. Then she felt something else. "Why only Tuesdays?" she asked. "Because I only have time on Tuesdays," said Mr Halpern. "And