Tarnished
They call it an Antique store, although it has had many names over the years. A Curiosity Shop, The Wunderkammer. I remember a time before this shop even existed, before the antiques were even created. The people who work at this store are less than children to me, insignificant. I will still be here when they are dead beneath the soil, or ashes in a pot somewhere. Humans are ephemeral, I go on. I am tarnished now, you can barely even see the shadow of a reflection in me. Part of me hopes that means the spell is wearing off, that one day I will simply be no more. The other, more intelligent part of me thinks it’s just because no one knows how to take proper care of a mirror these days. The Queen used to have her servants clean me daily with soft cloths that tickled and polish that stung in a good way. Like how men say aftershave feels. But the queen is less than ashes now, no more than a story, a cautionary tale. And yet I linger on. The bell dings merrily and the shop is flooded...