There’s a property on the corner of Gusto and Tosben street, the kind of place you can’t help but notice when you’re walking by. Not because it’s flashy—no, nothing about it screams look at me, but there’s something about it. Something in the way the light catches the windows, in the gentle sway of the “For Lease” sign that never seems to fall down. It beckons, almost like it’s waiting for someone to come along and breathe life into it. And yet… no one ever does.
People call it “the corner lot.”
It’s been a bakery, a boutique, an art gallery.
Once, it was even a record store.
Every time someone new moves in, there’s a brief glimmer of hope. Maybe this time, someone will make it work. And for a while, they do. The windows get cleaned, the doorbell rings with the jingle of new customers. There’s always a fresh coat of paint on the walls, a new sign out front. You can almost hear the buzz of possibility in the air, like the place is alive with promise.
But then—always, without fail—something shifts.
It starts small. A jar of jam that was on the counter suddenly isn’t. A piece of art you swear you hung on the wall one way, but now it’s turned slightly to the left. Small changes, things that could be explained away.
But then the customers stop coming.
It’s not that they don’t want to—no, it’s more like they can’t. Something holds them back. The people who used to walk in with curiosity now linger by the door, glancing over their shoulders as though the place might be watching them. They look at the shelves, the racks, the displays, but they don’t touch anything. It’s like they don’t know how to enter, how to settle into the space that’s meant to be a haven.
You can see it in their eyes.
And then they leave.
The first time it happened, the new owners—an eager couple with stars in their eyes—set up a charming little café, all warm wood and homemade pastries. They brought in live music on weekends and held workshops, and for a while, it felt like the corner lot was finally going to turn a corner. But after a few months, things started to feel off.
It wasn’t anything obvious at first. It was the way the light seemed to dim in the afternoons, the way shadows stretched a little too long across the floor, like the sun didn’t want to set there. It was the way the floor creaked in the quietest moments, as though someone—or something—was walking just out of view.
They didn’t last.
And the corner lot sat empty again.
It wasn’t long before someone else came along, a man with a dream of opening a vintage clothing store. He was so sure, so certain that this would be the one that worked. His voice was full of hope as he spoke to the landlord, a small, nervous man who always seemed to be looking over his shoulder.
The landlord didn’t say much. He never did. Just slid the papers across the table, his small eyes flicking briefly to the door before looking away.
“You’ll see,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You’ll see what it’s like to try.”
I didn’t understand what he meant then.
It didn’t take long for the man to start acting strange. He began to avoid his own shop, showing up later and later each day, until eventually, the door was locked, the lights off, the windows covered in dust. People said they saw him walking the streets at night, his head low, his eyes wide and unblinking.
Then came the plants.
I’m not talking about just any plants—these were rare, exotic species. The kind you’d need special permission to sell, the kind that would turn the place into a tropical wonderland if they thrived.
But they didn’t. They withered and died, no matter what the man did. He watered them, fertilized them, moved them around to catch the light. But day after day, they shriveled, their leaves turning black and brittle.
The strange part? No one could figure out why. There was nothing wrong with the air, the temperature, the humidity. It was like the plants were being drained—as if the space itself refused to let them grow.
The man left after six months.
And the cycle began again. A bookstore came next.
A woman who’d dreamed of opening a cozy little nook for years. She painted the walls a soft lavender, filled the shelves with hand-picked novels, and lit the place with warm lights. It looked perfect, the kind of place you could lose yourself in for hours. And for a while, it was.
But slowly, the books started to move. Not when people were around, but when the shop was closed. They’d shift to different places on the shelf, as if someone was carefully picking them up, flipping through them, and then putting them back where they didn’t belong. People would walk in, run their fingers along the spines, and suddenly feel unwelcome—like the books were judging them for being there.
The woman left after three months.
And still, the corner lot remained.
It’s been years since anyone lasted more than a season there. The “For Lease” sign comes down and goes up again. New faces come and go, and each time, there’s a strange feeling that fills the space—something warm, something inviting, but underneath it all, something that feels wrong.
Sometimes, I’ll pass by and catch a glimpse of the windows. The shelves are always neatly stocked, the door open, like it’s waiting for the next dreamer to come along. And I can’t help but wonder: What happens to all those who try?
Maybe they leave. Maybe they stay too long and never quite leave at all. Maybe the corner lot is like a hungry thing that feeds off ambition, that swallows dreams whole.
Or maybe it’s just a place that can’t be tamed, no matter how inviting it looks.
But I know one thing for sure: It’s always waiting.