Rosie’s Antiques

Illustration by Mara Wiedner

I still remember the first time I entered Rosie’s Antiques—a small cottage that had been converted into a shop. Rosie filled it with shelves of items, all perpetually covered in a thin layer of dust, which Rosie would dust off. It was a mysterious shop—no one knew when it appeared. The smell was slightly musty. Like the smell of an old book that had been sitting at the bottom of a bookshelf for years. I’m not quite sure why I still think about it—all the shelves: brimming with bric-a-brac. All different items. Some small, some large, some silver, some gold. There were four items I can distinctly recall.

I can still imagine them, on the shelves. One of those was the necklace. It was a golden heart on a chain. I used to imagine it belonged to a princess—one of her most prized possessions, but she had lost it running away from the castle after the Great Battle. Once I got older, I just assumed it was a gift from an ex-lover. After the breakup, a broken-hearted human gave up the piece of jewellery. Not wanting to cling on. Not wanting to be haunted by the memories of them…The laughter… Perhaps the relationship started too quickly or ended too soon. Now it just sits, alone. As I presume the owner does. Unless, they have found somebody else. Whilst their old necklace, sits alone on the shelf.

To the left of the necklace’s shelf, was a window. Under the shop’s window sat a small window seat. This was where my favourite item—the typewriter used to sit. It was basked in golden light on a summer’s day and surrounded by snow on a winter’s night. I’m unsure why I was comforted by a lump of metal with keys that clicked, clicked, clicked—but I was. It likely could have been the satisfying noise of typing on the keyboard, or indeed the little ‘ding’ noise it makes. The ‘Q’ keycap had faded. I wasn’t sure why—it’s not the most popular letter in the English language. Maybe the previous owner was obsessed with the letter ‘Q’ and tried to cram in as many words containing the letter Q into their writing. Words like tranquillity, equilibrium, equity, equality. I imagine an older woman sitting at the typewriter, pondering how she was going to finish her manuscript. The words flowing seamlessly through her body, until she reaches the final sentences. Words seem impossibly far away. Unreachable. Untouchable. Her thoughts drifting off to other tasks: flowers to water, a daughter to call. It doesn’t seem that she will end the story, after all.

Once I can pull my heart away from the typewriter’s image, I can remember where the box used to sit. It used to be beside the counter.  It used to captivate the local children, who would create fairy tales about this wooden box: treasure, pirates, and magic spells—or even, a witch’s box to hide her potions. However, boringly, parents would ‘correct’ them, saying it was just for an old lady’s lotions. I remember Rosie rolling her eyes and winking at the children, keeping the smiles on their faces. Intricate swirls were etched into its skin. A lock, its barrier. Hiding the world from within.

The last time I set foot in Rosie’s Antiques, I was the only one in there. My eyes scanned the stock, and stopped on the dollhouse. I’m not sure why, but it was Rosie’s favourite item in the shop. It had its own little spot—opposite the window, so all the sunbeams would be cast over it. Enveloped in a golden aura.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ A small, inquisitive voice appeared from around the corner. I peered over and saw a bob of grey frizz. Rosie. The one and only.

I smiled. ‘It is.’ Her lips curved into a smile, but it never reached her eyes. She stopped in front of the dollhouse, her hands running up and down the wood. The ghost of a smile faded.

Now, the shop sits empty. Its sign, tattered and left to dangle from one side. Shelves and stock have vanished. I’m not sure where they went. All that remains are memories, and the never-ending piles of dust. Without Rosie and her shop, the town is left with a massive dent.