The dusty old antique shop was certainly unique to say the least. When one person walked in they would be showered in dust. You would always be able to hear the small crackling of the candles that were placed about randomly, you’d even been able to hear a pin drop. There was a figure at the back counter who constantly wore a large trench coat and fedora. They never spoke and they never reacted to anything. If a miniature clock fell from a shelf they would walk over and place it back disturbing the dust. If a candle burned out they grabbed a match and lit it once more.

The antiques themselves seemed to be more of a mystery than the figure. There were random assortments of items in different places. There were garden nomes that watched your every movement. There were small fountains in which the water had long since evaporated. There were statues of birds. There were even old altars dedicated to ancient gods. You couldn’t move without almost stepping on a stuffed mouse. Books were piled in corners and even in the middle of the dusty walkways creating a labyrinth of sorts. These piles taller than the average person most of the time.

But even all these mysteries and wonders faded or broke. There were piles of broken pieces of pottery, broken statues, broken garden nomes, and even books that were torn apart. Even those these things were broken, they still held a great deal of answers to questions and myths. The shards of pottery were all intricately painted, and when put together in the proper order they told a story almost as old as the Earth herself. It was like a puzzle no one could solve. Or no one bothered to solve it. That is the antique shop. People seldom came in. When nobody entered, they allowed this story, this puzzle to fade, and for pieces to be lost.