Prasha Sooful

Meera returned home with two acquisitions. A broken radio and a fractured mirror.

Four hundred dollars for two items that aren't even functional, she lamented.

She had initially ducked into the store for two reasons. The first was to avoid seeing her doctor, and the second was that she had noticed her shirt was buttoned incorrectly.

It was five days before Christmas, and the street of Lambton Quay, Wellington seemed more chaotic with a festive mix of last-minute shoppers and tourists. Moving among the crowds, Meera couldn't help but observe their harried nature, heads lowered in devotion to their phones, unwilling to escape their virtual captors. She had once too engaged in the endless quest of digital validation through likes and follows. Remembering how much time and energy she had expended on carefully capturing curated moments and fleeting online relationships, she now cringed. Algorithms were simply not made to cater for genuine connections. Not that she was an expert on those either.

As the solid north-westerly wind swept her tiny physique through the holiday crowd, an encounter with a woman and a pine tree left her long black hair in a tangle of green needles.

'Sorry, sorry,' muttered the large woman but continued without glancing in Meera's direction.

Seeking refuge near a dirty shop window, Meera was dismayed to find that in addition to her already dishevelled state, she had been walking around for the last thirty minutes with her top button fastened to the one below. She quickly unfastened both buttons, but spotted Dr. Lee's grey cotton candy hair before she could do them up properly. Like an ominous cloud framing her surprisingly unwrinkled face, Dr Lee strode confidently across the road in blindingly white orthopaedic shoes.

Not in the mood for conventional holiday niceties or unsolicited health advice, Meera put her head down. She quickly flung open the shop door she had been standing in front of. For a brief second, she was confused. There was nothing. Her eyes adjusted to a small, dark room. An abandoned reception desk stood in one corner. The wooden laminate was covered in dust bunnies and peeling posters of antiques fairs from the 2010s. She looked around and saw a staircase on the opposite side leading up to a second level. A faded black and white sign with an arrow read, 'Antiques & Accidents: The Unforeseen Collection.' Her curiosity peaked; Meera teetered up the narrow steps in the uncomfortably tight stiletto-heeled boots she had chosen to wear.

On the top of the landing, her weak wrists struggled with a heavy wooden door, and a faint chime announced her arrival. She was immediately greeted by a rush of sensory experiences that washed over her like a wave of nostalgia. The scent of old paper and aged wood enveloped her, mingling with the spicy aroma of incense that wafted through the cosy room. Ambient light filtered through a round, grimy window, and a tiny skylight above her head illuminated her entrance.

The shop was a labyrinth of curiosities, each item vying for her attention. Scrolls lined the top shelves on the side closest to her, their parchment yellowed with time, bearing handwritten scripts in languages she couldn't decipher. Delicate porcelain figurines stood sentinel encased in worn wooden cabinets. Jewellery glimmered from behind glass cases, their stones winking in the subdued light. Meera adored places like this. But in the fleeting moment of joy she experienced, another emotion rose to the surface. Grief.

'Free feel to look around. Ask me if you need any of the cabinets unlocked.' The soft voice startled her out of her own memories. She had forgotten for a moment that she was not alone. A man appeared swiftly and soundlessly; towering over her. His proximity was unnerving. Meera immediately turned and took a few steps away from him but nodded in acknowledgment. It was always uncomfortable when people invaded her personal space. Still, the man didn't notice and advanced to her side again.

'Looking for anything in particular? A gift, perhaps?' His voice was gentle but precise. A slight accent. Meera always noticed accents. Maybe because she had one.

'Just browsing,' she replied curtly but attempted a polite smile. She didn't want to seem rude or abrupt; she wanted to be left alone. The owner or assistant, or whoever he was, didn't seem phased by her unfriendliness. Instead, he stared down at her with a familiarity she found unsettling. She stared back, and his gaze shifted. The lanky giant quickly averted his eyes. It then dawned on her that she had forgotten one of the reasons she came in here in the first place: the wardrobe malfunction. The man stepped back and retreated noiselessly to a desk nearly hidden under papers and trinkets.

'Feel free to look.' He repeated and disappeared from her view.

Face burning, she set her heavy leather bag on the carpeted floor and quickly did up the formal white shirt.

'Whatever,' she muttered and walked around. The shop was arranged in five narrow rows of cabinets and shelves. She surveyed the shop's outline and finally chose the last row closest to the wall to begin her methodical exploration. However, she suspected even if she stayed in there for hours, it would not be long enough to satisfy her curiosity.

Wandering around, the last conversation with Dr. Lee popped into her head.

'Trust me, Meera. You don't need a referral to a neurologist. Did you call the counsellor I referred you to? I know they have been trying to make an appointment with you.'

As if. A counsellor was definitely not what she needed. High-resolution medical imaging, on the other hand, could explain a lot.

'You've completely disconnected yourself from the world, Meera. You worked from home for the past two years. You don't have any friends or any significant relationships to speak of. You barely leave the house. I'm probably the only person you talk to.' Dr. Lee lectured her.

It was all true. But it wasn't just the last couple of years; Meera had felt her whole life that she existed outside the realm of the real world. Living in the shadowy margins like a spectre floating amid the vivid strokes of existence. People ignored her. At school, at uni, at work, in conversations, in every way imaginable. Their glances seldom lingered, moving over her and onto more exciting people. But where she had once constantly yearned to be noticed, now, she savoured her inconspicuousness. Reviling in her fringe subsistence.

Meera shook her head, trying to rid herself of the unwanted thoughts and focussed her attention on the wonders in the shop. She loved everything about it, from the tiny trinkets to the larger artwork adorned on the mouldy walls. Everything, aside from the layers of dust that arose from the carpets and shelves. Suppressing a sneeze, she rounded a corner around a tower of old books, pressed flower art, and was drawn to an unexpected glint. Meera approached the mirror with a mixture of inquisitiveness and reverence. Rectangular and almost as tall as she was, it was framed with an intricate lattice of whitewashed timber and metal on the outer edges and adorned with delicate hand-carved arches on the inner border. The surface was tarnished with age and cracked, dividing her reflection into three. The shop was eerily silent, except for a few grandfather clocks ticking in a nearby aisle.

She extended a small trembling hand, feeling the irregularity of the aged wood under her fingertips. As she contemplated her multiple reflections, they seemed to waver with fluidity. The mirror's presence filled her with an almost palpable energy. Her heart raced with a sense of anticipation.

'It's on sale.'

'Jesus Christ!' Meera jumped at the quiet voice that sounded behind her.

'My apologies for startling you.' He smiled kindly, again standing far too close for her liking. She could now see an odd mixture of their reflections in the mirror.

'I just wanted to let you know it's on sale for four hundred. He continued enthusiastically, 'It's a bargain if you think about it. It's a vintage Indian piece using reclaimed wood with excellent craftsmanship on the arches. Only the looking glass is cracked, but lots of places in town could easily replace it for you.'

'Mehrab,' Meera replied. 'The arches, I mean. That's what the design is called. Mehrab.' She paused. 'Four hundred, did you say?'

The price wasn't an issue. Meera knew a thing or two about furniture, and it was a bargain given the design and age. The question was, did she really need it?

'I can give the number of someone who could change the glass for you. I'm sure they will do it for a reasonable price.' He persisted.

But Meera didn't want the cracked mirror changed. She liked it as is. She remained silent for a minute, weighing her options.

The store's hushed ambience was interrupted by the abrupt entrance of a figure wielding a smartphone on a selfie stick like a modern talisman. The store owner’s discomfort was unmistakable. He exchanged a momentary glance with Meera as if acknowledging a shared aversion to the invasion of their sanctuary. In their brief connection, a silent understanding unfolded - a solidarity against the relentless stream of digital intrusion. The younger intruder, obviously live-streaming a video, continued, unaware of the disruption they had caused.

'…so many gorgeous finds in here! I can't even. Hashtag antique goals, hashtag antique store shenanigans, hashtag relics. Follow me for more. Byeee!' The Instagram interloper concluded with exaggerated enthusiasm.

The youthful woman descended upon them, 'This place has an amazing vibe and aesthetic, you know? Wow! What a gorgeous mirror!'

Meera quickly spoke, addressing the store owner directly, her mind made up. 'I'll buy it. The mirror.'

'A beautiful choice. The mirror reflects not just your image but the stories within you.' He said as he stared down at her. 'Broken things have a charm of their own.'

Meera, taken aback by the poetic sentiment, muttered, 'I'm already buying it. No need to try so hard.'

Thank goodness he seemed to take the hint and picked up the heavy object.

'I'll prepare this for you and keep it at the front desk.'

The young woman followed him to the front, 'Do you mind if I take a quick selfie with it before you wrap it up? It looks kinda spooky, don't you think? My followers will really get a kick out of it. Hashtag haunted mirror! Imagine the engagement I'll get when people see me surrounded by, like, ancient stuff, right?'

Meera contained a smirk and continued her systematic perusal of the shop. She stopped occasionally and carefully examined articles that caught her eye, but nothing called out to her like the mirror. Often, she saw something of interest on the upper shelves but could see no step ladder nor stool to reach them. Not wanting to engage the tall man in any further conversation than was necessary, those items would have to remain a mystery for now.

As she started down the final row, her heel caught on the frayed purple carpet, and she stumbled. She reached out with her right hand, bracing against a large case. Her delicate fingers came to rest upon an old radio.

'Ugh,' Meera sighed. She wiped away grime and the dead silverfish stuck on her palm with an antibacterial wipe from her bag. Preparing to leave, she heard a faint static and took another look at the radio. Then, carefully using the other side of the wipe, she cleaned the wireless device. The front gleamed cherry red as she unearthed a familiar white flowing script that read 'Drink Coca Cola'. The radio was small and shaped like a mini cooler, with an adjustable silver aerial on the top and two knobs on the front. The white lettering around the dials was almost gone, but she guessed one would be frequency and the other volume. It would suit her home office perfectly. Quickly dusting off the other sides, she tucked it under one arm and made her way to the desk.

'I'll take this one too.' She said purposefully, holding out the radio.

The man nodded and took it from her. He examined the radio and asked, 'Are you sure? I think this particular one is broken.' He smiled ruefully, 'I promise I have other things in the store that work.'

Meera shrugged, 'I'm pretty sure it still works. I just heard it.' She continued, 'How much is it all together?'

He stared at her for a few seconds.

Ugh, prolonged eye contact. Another thing she hated.

'Well, since you're buying the mirror…let me throw in the radio for free.'

Meera blinked. Now it was her turn to ask, 'Are you sure?' This looks like an original, probably from the 1940s, because it only says AM and not FM. It's worth at least a hundred dollars. She pointed to the faded lettering.

'You really know your stuff.' He raised his eyebrows.

'But I have a feeling it was meant for you,' he imparted enigmatically. 'And now that you know I charge reasonable prices, you can return and shop again.' He paused to drop the radio into a paper carrier bag.

'I thought you might be familiar with antiques, seeing how meticulous you were with your shop inspection. Do you perhaps work in the industry?' He smiled as he presented the electronic card reader for her to pay.

'No,' she answered after a brief pause. 'But I used to visit places like this with my dad.'

'Here's a list of shops that could replace the glass for you. Tell them that I sent you.' He handed her a piece of paper and a business card.

Steven Katō. Antiquarian and Appraiser.

Meera took the offerings and put them into her bag but didn't mention that she had no intention of getting the glass replaced. For some reason, the mirror appealed to her as it was. What was that corny line he said earlier?

Ah yes. Broken things have a charm of their own. Maybe the store owner was right.

After more than an hour spent in the store, the musty aroma of aged wood and forgotten histories hung thick, triggering an onslaught of Meera's allergies. Her eyes, sensitive to the swirling dust particles, began to itch incessantly, and she could feel a constriction in her chest. Fumbling in her bag, she retrieved her asthma inhaler, the reassuring click echoing through the air as she took two measured puffs, hoping to quell the impending storm.

The shopkeeper, with a kind smile, noticed her discomfort. 'I apologise for the dust and the ancient charm that sometimes comes with a touch of mould. I haven't had much chance to clean since I took over the store.'

Meera nodded and glanced at her purchase, carefully wrapped with layers of butcher's paper; she had failed to recall the mirror's enormity. How would she get it down the stairs and to her car, especially in heels and a skirt? She deliberated leaving the mirror in the shop until tomorrow.

'I'll help you with the mirror. There's an elevator we can use. Just give me a moment to turn off the lights and lock up.'

Then Meera noticed the time on the metal clock behind the desk. Six thirty. She took note of the opening and closing times below the clock. The store officially closed at six pm. He had graciously let her stay for an extra half an hour.

'I'm so sorry,' she began. 'I didn't realise I was taking so long to browse. You should have said something sooner. No need to help me with the mirror. I can come back tomorrow morning.'

'I didn't mind. You were the only person in here today. Besides the wannabe influencer lady...' He continued, '…who didn't even buy anything.'

Eyeing her petite frame, he continued, 'And I don't mind helping with the mirror either.' He pulled a mover's trolley from a nook in the wall behind the desk, loaded the mirror onto it and turned off the lights.

They stepped into an archaic elevator together. The tiny space seemed more constricted with the colossal mirror. It was dark when they locked the front door and exited onto the now-empty but well-lit street. The arresting aromas from a few nearby restaurants reminded Meera she had not eaten all day.

'Where are you parked?' The mysterious shopkeeper proving to be both accommodating and intriguing.

'Two streets down.' Meera gestured, bracing against the forceful evening wind. They walked slowly together, stopping several times for Meera to wipe her teary eyes and runny nose. Steven, the store owner, always politely looked away.

'By the way, what do you think of the shop's name? Antiques and Accidents: The Unforeseen Collection.' He placed particular emphasis on the last three words.

'What?' Meera was startled by the unexpected question.

'I want to change the name of the shop. Do you have any thoughts?'

'Umm…not really.' She began to feel drained by their odd interactions.

'Well, have a think about it. When you come back, you can give me your suggestions.' He smiled again.

I won't be coming back. Meera felt annoyed. As much as she enjoyed the shop and its endless curiosities, she didn't particularly like the human interaction.

'Will you be alright at home getting it out? I could help with that if you like. Do you live far from here?' He asked casually as he loaded her purchases in the small grey SUV.

'Oh no,' she replied quickly as visions of true crime Netflix shows flashed in her mind.

'That's okay. I'll be fine.' She waved him off. The last thing she needed was a potential weirdo to know her address.