The Aisle Between Aisles

Monday evening in Lviv.

I had completed three errands, postponed two others, and somehow acquired a receipt for something I was fairly certain I had not bought.

I considered this an efficient day.

By the time I returned to the area near my hotel, the heat had finally started loosening its grip on the city. I needed only a few ordinary things: water, toothpaste, something for breakfast, and perhaps one pastry that would inevitably become three.

There was a Silpo nearby, so I went in.

It was busy, but not unpleasantly so. I took a basket and entered with the cautious optimism of a man who has survived collapsing realities but still believes he can shop without making a list.

The first aisle contained bread.

This was reassuring.

The next contained laundry detergent, canned peas, birthday candles, and three kinds of mustard.

This was less reassuring, but still within acceptable supermarket logic.

I turned left, intending to find dairy products, and arrived at pet food.

I turned right and found tea.

I followed a sign marked Молочні продукти and reached a promotional island of frying pans.

I stopped.

“Good,” I murmured. “The usual architecture.”

Some supermarkets are arranged by category. Others are arranged according to the private emotional journey of whoever designed them.

This one appeared to have been arranged during an argument.

I continued.

One shelf held cereal, neatly aligned in cheerful boxes.

The opposite shelf held jars labelled Morning, Lightly Salted.

I did not notice that immediately.

First, I picked up a yoghurt, compared two brands, placed one in my basket, changed my mind, returned it, selected the original one again, and felt faintly betrayed by the entire process.

I passed a refrigerator full of cheese.

Across from it stood a refrigerator full of softly humming stones.

That was when I stopped.

The Brama in my coat pocket gave a single, quiet ping.

I closed my eyes.

“No.”

Ping.

“I am buying toothpaste.”

Ping.

“You have no respect for schedules.”

The Brama remained silent, which is how it usually expresses victory.

At the end of the aisle, between shelves of mineral water and discounted biscuits, I noticed a narrow corridor.

I was almost certain it had not been there a moment earlier.

A small yellow sign hung above it.

ДОДАТКОВІ ТОВАРИ

Additional goods.

“Of course,” I said.

The corridor appeared harmless. It was tiled like the rest of the shop, lit by the same white lamps, and decorated with the same cheerful price labels.

So naturally, I stepped inside.

On my left were bottles of sunflower oil.

On my right were bottles of moonlight, available in still and sparkling.

I kept walking.

Normal shelf: pasta.

Strange shelf: replacement shadows, folded and sealed in transparent packaging.

Normal shelf: coffee.

Strange shelf: small tins marked Tuesday, Instant.

I picked one up.

The instructions read:

Add hot water. Wait until Wednesday.

I put it back.

The corridor turned sharply.

Then it turned again.

Then it turned upward without any noticeable slope.

I glanced behind me.

The entrance was gone.

Instead, the corridor continued in both directions, lined with shelves and promotional banners. A recorded voice spoke from somewhere overhead.

“Dear customers, today only: buy two memories of the seaside and receive a third memory belonging to someone else free.”

A shopping trolley rolled past me by itself.

It contained six cabbages and a sleeping violinist.

I stepped aside politely.

The Brama pinged twice.

“Yes, I see it.”

The ceiling above me rotated.

For several seconds, the shelves were on the ceiling and the lamps were on the floor. Packets of rice remained perfectly stacked overhead, as though gravity had signed an exclusive contract with the store.

Then everything rotated back.

A woman pushing a trolley appeared from around the corner. She looked completely calm.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Have you seen the way back to the cash desks?”

“Yes,” she replied. “About forty minutes ago.”

“And recently?”

“No.”

She continued onward, examining a shelf of umbrellas that whispered weather forecasts in extinct languages.

I walked faster.

The next aisle was normal: biscuits, chocolate, wafers.

The aisle after that was six kilometres long and contained only one enormous jar of pickles at the far end.

I chose not to investigate.

I turned another corner and found a section labelled HOUSEHOLD NECESSITIES.

There were sponges.

There were bin bags.

There were replacement childhoods in three convenient sizes.

There were batteries.

There was a small red box containing one emergency grandmother who would appear, feed everyone, criticise the curtains, and vanish before midnight.

I considered buying it.

Then I checked the price.

“Ridiculous.”

I moved on.

The anomaly was becoming less subtle.

One aisle folded across another aisle at a right angle and intersected itself in the middle. Customers passed through one another without noticing. A freezer door opened onto a sunny beach. A stack of toilet paper was protected by two medieval guards demanding proof of noble lineage.

I showed them a supermarket loyalty card.

They saluted and let me pass.

After about fifteen minutes, my basket contained water, toothpaste, yoghurt, croissants, a packet of coffee, and one small brass key I had no memory of selecting.

I stared at the key.

A label dangled from it.

AISLE 7 — STAFF ONLY

Naturally, there was no Aisle 7.

The numbers progressed from 5 to 6, then to 6 Again, then to Fish, then to a section identified only by a drawing of a worried goose.

I retraced my steps.

This time, I watched the shelves carefully.

Normal shelf: soap.

Strange shelf: bottled applause.

Normal shelf: flour.

Strange shelf: flour that had already been baked into cakes in several possible futures.

Normal shelf: canned tomatoes.

Strange shelf: canned arguments, family size.

Then I noticed the pattern.

Every fourth shelf was ordinary.

Every fifth shelf believed it was ordinary.

Every seventh shelf was upside down.

But whenever I passed a promotional sign for discounted buckwheat, the corridor rearranged itself behind me.

I stopped in front of one such sign.

ГРЕЧКА — 29.99

The price flickered.

29.99.

299.9.

TWO FAVOURS AND A SECRET.

29.99.

I took out the Brama.

Its symbols glowed faintly, but instead of pointing toward a dimensional rupture, they were circling one another in visible irritation.

“This is not a natural anomaly,” I said.

The Brama pinged in agreement.

“It has been organised.”

Another ping.

“Poorly.”

A third ping, louder.

I looked around.

The endless supermarket was not random. It behaved like a shop desperately trying to contain too many versions of itself at once.

Several possible Silpos had overlapped.

One was ordinary.

One came from a world where objects remembered their owners.

One had been built upside down.

One sold abstract concepts.

And at least one appeared to be managed by geese.

The shelves rotated because the realities were taking turns.

The corridors lengthened because none of them agreed where the back wall belonged.

And the cash desks—

That was when I stopped.

Every supermarket, in every reality, has one thing more powerful than geometry.

The queue.

I climbed onto an abandoned crate of tangerines.

“Excuse me!” I called.

The nearby shoppers looked up.

“To everyone trying to leave: one of the cash desks is opening!”

Silence.

Then, from every corridor, came the unmistakable sound of sudden movement.

Trolleys turned.

Baskets lifted.

Customers emerged from impossible aisles, dimensional freezers, upside-down shelves, and one revolving door marked BAKERY / MINOR AFTERLIFE.

“Which desk?” someone shouted.

I pointed confidently toward a blank wall.

“Number four!”

The entire labyrinth reacted.

A queue formed instantly.

It began with three people, then nine, then forty. It curved past frozen foods, crossed the beach freezer, climbed briefly onto the ceiling, and continued through at least two incompatible realities.

The anomaly shuddered.

Corridors twisted, trying to accommodate the line.

Shelves slid aside.

Walls unfolded.

Every version of the supermarket attempted to place Cash Desk Four at the front of the queue.

For one glorious second, all realities agreed on the same location.

I pushed the brass key into a keyhole that appeared in the air.

I turned it.

The Brama gave a satisfied chime.

The endless corridors collapsed with the soft, tidy sound of a brochure being folded.

I found myself standing beside the real refrigerated section, directly opposite the cash desks.

My basket was intact.

The shoppers were gone.

The shelves were normal.

Mostly.

A cashier raised an eyebrow.

“Did you find everything?”

I looked into my basket.

Water.

Toothpaste.

Yoghurt.

Coffee.

Three croissants.

And the small red emergency-grandmother box.

I placed it quietly beside a display of chewing gum.

“Yes,” I said. “Eventually.”

At the next checkout, a customer was arguing that he had definitely entered the shop with a violinist and six cabbages.

I chose another queue.

The Brama pinged once from my pocket.

I sighed.

“No. We are going back to the hotel.”

Behind me, somewhere near the biscuits, a worried goose announced a discount.