I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading — treading — till it seemed That Sense was breaking through —   And when they all were seated,       A Service, like a Drum —  Kept beating — beating — till I thought       My mind was going numb —   And then I heard them lift a Box      And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again,      Then Space — began to toll,   As all the Heavens were a Bell,        And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race,        Wrecked, solitary, here —   And then a Plank in Reason, broke,        And I dropped down, and down — And hit a World, at every plunge,       And Finished knowing — then —

This little store of mine as always been my dream, I am just 2 days from opening the doors for the first time. It is located in a very small town of West Virginia, my grandparents lived here and I always loved visiting them so I made it my permanent home when I inherited their house. My shop is a good sized space,the walls are painted with a beautiful violet color, evoking a seance of wonder. The pristine white carpet invites customers to wanted the space with reverence for the treasures that lie within. It is the best space for my collectibles, I collect Antiques and stuff form old wars. The shelves are filled with rare war items and antiques. A mysterious aura surrounds a section of the store, a weird cold calm presence.

Rows and rows of old items, Some that look nice and other that don’t, Each item has its own story, You can tell a lot just by looking,

There’s an air of dust and relics, It almost like my grandparents house, Each piece has some unique characteristics, If you search deep enough you might find something that piques your interest.

Why is it that grandmas always find the ugliest clothes to wear?

On our date I wore a cheesy sweatshirt filled with floral embroidered graphics and kind words like “sweet” and “precious”.

My tank top had gotten soaked after an incident involving the unfortunate timing of my grandma’s backyard sprinkler.

“You know you never actually told me where we’re going.” I told her in the passenger seat of her Volkswagen bug.

She smiles. “A special place.”

“Not bingo night at the rec center. Please no.”

“That’s tomorrow.” She giggles.

We pull up to a brick building downtown that almost looks abandoned if it weren’t for a neon “open” sign beaming from a dark window. I can’t help but feel awkward when I step out of the car. As if someone is watching me, and I forget how I usually walk or what expression my countenance should display.

But the feeling comes to an abrupt end when my grandma holds open the rickety door for me to walk through, and I’m met with the immense beauty of shelves over-stocked with glasses, candles, jewelry, and china. Piles of antiques stacked haphazardly. Chains of pearls and beads draping from the towers like a pirate’s treasure hoard.

The woman behind the counter gasps when she realizes we’ve walked into her antique shop.

“Oh, great heavens!” She presses her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. We never have customers at this time of the year.”

“July?” I ask.

She chuckles. “Yes ma’am. Summer is dead for us. No one wants to explore the items of the deceased when county fairs are up and pools are open.”

My grandma leans on the glass counter displaying rings underneath, and engages in a dull conversation about the unpredictable weather. Meanwhile, a shining blue object catches my eye.

What I pick up is a ceramic mug. Poorly glazed with a thick coat of cyan. The mug is chipped and lopsided like it was made by a child. I inspect it. Turning it, caressing it, pinching it, as if it’s dysfunctional form has a message for me and I need to listen to it.

I shut my eyes and feel down to the rough bottom where I feel words carved.

“3/14/1912 From: Eileen To: Papa”

My attention is divided when suddenly my grandma’s hand rests on my shoulder.

“Almost ready to go?”

“Huh? Oh… yeah. No wait, we’ve only been here a couple minutes?”

“I know. I just came to catch up with a friend.” She gestures to the cashier. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Umm, a mug? I like it.”

Her eyebrows knit as she notices its awkward shape. “It’s… very unique.”

“Yeah. Can I get it? It’s only a couple bucks.”

“If it makes you happy.” She shrugs.

I nod fervently.

I keep it in my lap on the long ride home. Admiring it still as if I had just seen it for the first time.

I wonder if it ever held coffee or tea. Or how many times it was shown off to family members. If Eileen ever continued with pottery. If Eileen could still be alive. If she is, does she remember it?

This mug is not meant to sit with the perfect ones in the kitchen cabinet, nor to be used as pen cup on my dusty desk. Upon arriving back home, I promptly made space for it on a shelf by my bed where I kept every other pretty thing.

Even if it wasn’t as special as my silver and my gold, my awards or my baby teeth, it was special to Eileen. It was special to her father.

The shop is small, hunched in an alley. You would miss it if you didn't know it was there, or if it didn't happen to catch your eye as you bustled past the alley on the way to somewhere else. A small sign creaks above the door, barely holding on to the metal post it is secured to, and the name of the shop. It's faded letters proclaim it "Night Traders". And, as the name implies, they are only open at night. During the day very little can be seen through the window. What can be made out is dusty and worn.

But at night, the light that emanates from the interior is warm. That glow saturates everything inside, and gives everything a cared for appearance, rather than worn.

The door seems to open of its own accord, and beacons you inside. The ceiling is low, but the length of the store belies how tiny it looks on the outside.

The walls are packed with things, all manner of things. Furniture, from all ages that no one could ever picture in their home until it is placed there. Art, glassware, knick knacks, all the usual things you expect from an antique shop. But, these things all have stories, some more fantastical than others. And, if you find the right thing, the thing meant for you, the shop keeper, as hunched and small as the outside of the shop, but with eyes as warm as the night time window, will tell you that story.

It was here that I found myself, looking desperately for my story.

The bell jingles like a pixie up to no good, but the door whines louder - rudely loud for such a quiet place like this.

I close the door carefully, clicking it into frame as if the walls around it would crumble otherwise.

I stomp my boots against the welcome mat, slush melting around the cursive lettering. I look up at the room no bigger than most basements.

Even without all these knick-knacks that lost their use long ago, this room looks like a snapshot of a time I never knew myself.

Shelves and clocks line the sides, irregularly shaped and leaving few gaps in between. The fading cranberry wallpaper casts a strange darkness, like a pool of old blood with no one to scrub it away.

The tables in the middle, none of them matching, seem to be antique as well, although I can’t tell if they’re for sale. Someone placed each item strategically, where I can see glimpses of everything from where I stand at the entrance, enough to catch my eye without revealing all its secrets.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice croaky.

The walls absorb it, and they don’t offer anything in return.

I step forward, and the floorboard creaks below me.

My head feels heavy, like I’m balancing a bowling ball on my shoulders. This coat protected me from the snowfall all evening, but now its warmth traps me.

The lamps on every other table glow different shades of yellow, all trying to outdo each other. The one closest to me boasts a shade someone sewed blue and red birds into. I slow down at this one, the garish gold stand blinding me, then keep moving.

A wooden box sits on the other side, its many drawers and flaps are closed but inviting. How can something do small keep so many compartments?

I reach forward, my cold-cracked skin and numb fingers like puppets on strings, separate from my body. When I push open a flap on the side, something glints inside.

A necklace, hanging from a tiny hook.

I blink.

I’m no expert. I’ve never owned jewelry that wasn’t from a dollar store, but this silver looks very real.

I look up and around. No one else is here.

I know that the door’s sign read OPEN. Would someone leave that out there with the door unlocked if they weren’t around for customers? I feel like the owners should - would - be careful enough not to make that mistake.

Especially when valuables like this are so close to the entrance.

I back away as far as I can from this jewelry box.

Something moves in the corner of my eye. Like a shadow, changing under a moving light.

I glance over my shoulder, then double-take.

A grandfather clock looms behind me. Its face looks down at me, standing tall on a curved stand. The hands stay still, the hour stuck at 3:00 and the minute at 12:00.

No sound here, other than my breathing.

Oil paint and leather and dust bleed together, the smell trying to choke me from the inside out.

My limbs feel tight. Muscle memory disappears from me.

I cough, and something in the air releases.

I move again, one foot stumbling until I catch my self.

Shuffling along the narrow walkway, I search for price tags. I imagine paper ones with small prices written in dark red marker, looking as vintage as the item itself. I don’t find that, or any other type of price tag.

I stop.

A bowl sits on check-out counter, small wrapped candies peeling over the rim. The light over it brightens - or maybe that’s just my imagination.

My stomach rumbles, running on nothing but breakfast.

I walk towards the back, quicker than before, passing war memorabilia and China plates and antique dolls. I lean over the bowl.

Nothing will fill me up. In fact, I know from experience that it might only make me hungrier than before, getting my body ready for a meal only to receive scraps.

My fingers, no longer as numb, hover over the candies, like a child playing eenie-minie-moe. I snatch one. I clutch it in my palm, then frown. I look at it again.

Whatever’s inside seems to be hard, like a rock. Maybe a peppermint?

Something creaks from the other side of the room.

I turn, and the candy slips out of my hand.

The door’s lock turns to the side, clicking into place.

Stale air sits heavy in the evening. The pale lit sun Only brightens each dust particle, Wandering aimlessly through the shop.

Some sit comfortably in fragile china, While others lie on the heads of old dolls. Dolls with their painted faces Made to love a child through the ages.

Chimes hang on the door Ringing, Singing, Forever more.

Matted carpet under feet Whites and pinks, Creams and browns Hiding all around.

Shelves tower way up high Almost reaching the light blue sky. Shelves with stains from long ago And dust that went from home to home.

Thirsty for a dusting this parched store located in the farthest corner of the shoreline where no one has visited in well over a decade, two old ladies sit upon rocking chairs watching the sea calmly sway back and forth from its porch. A trio of cats dancing around their feet as they watch eagerly for their next treasure to wash up.

A small oxidised pendant hides itself within the soft snowy sand. Eunice jumps out of her chair and runs towards the find, her Birkenstocks smacking against the creaking wood as her creaking bones push her forwards. She struggles to bend down to grab the pendant so enlists the help of her wife Marjory who offers her a garbage picker. She picks the pendant up with the long grabber and takes the pendant in her leathered palm. Just another treasure to lock behind their store, their homely treasure chest.

It was a darker shade of a gorgeous day: slightly windy, the sun hidden behind silver cloud fragments. There was a small little town called Shepherds Peak in central Indiana, and in the centre of Shepherds Peak there was an antique shop.

It was very old and rustic, the aesthetic being a million shades of brown. The dusty shelves were filled with old china dolls with glass eyes that stared straight into your soul and old snow globes that had yellowed over the years. Honestly, the place creeped you out.

Oh, no big deal, that was just probably because of the hundreds of knives on display. Suck it up, because you’re gonna have to get used to it.

Antique City is probably my most favourite place in the world! It’s a small shop hidden between two big buildings on an already unknown street. It sticks out with its brown and peeling green exterior next to the eggshell buildings, yet people walk right past it without giving it a glance. I’ve never seen more than one or two people in there at a time. When people walk in, they are always hit with the musky smell of worn out books and clothing. I wouldn’t exactly call it a hit, but a nice warm hug instead. The owners are very friendly and treat everyone that walks in like family. They’re an older couple. Lately I’ve noticed them training a woman around my age, maybe their granddaughter? The things I’d give to work there… but I’ve been way too busy with my studies. My dream is to own my very own antique shop one day. One that also has old paintings and books from the early nineteenth century. A shop that gives you a warm hug when you step inside. What a long path I have ahead me.