--10th of June 2023--
Another day without customers, I thought to myself as I flicked off the dusty lights and turned the key in the lock.
The antique shop fell into deep silence, the kind that pressed in on your ears and lingered in the corners like a shadow that refused to leave.
The metallic click of the door echoed faintly through the street, where the sun had already begun its descent behind grey clouds.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the weathered sign hanging above the entrance.
Arata Antiques.
The letters were faded and chipped, and barely visible now.
Almost like the memory of my parents, fragile and fading.
My name is Kendra Arata, I'm 22 years old. And I'm the official owner of Arata Antiques.
Back then this store didn't used to be so empty, that is when my parents were still around.
They both died three years ago in a car accident.
No warning, no goodbyes.
Just a sudden, merciless black hole that swallowed everything I knew.
I still remember the call clearly in my head.
That cold and serious voice of the police questioning my identity.
"This is Jack from the ***** Police speaking, are you Kendra Arata?"
The young me still fresh out of highschool, thought it was some sort of prank at first.
"So what if I am?" I answered back with amusement clear in my voice, thinking it was one of my friends playing around.
But that thought was soon flipped by the next statement
"I' don't know how to break this to you young man, but your parents is no longer in this world."
The way time seems to froze when I heard those words I never expected to hear.
I denied it at first, shouting loudly towards the caller.
But with every word spoken after that I was left with no way to retort.
In the end out of desperation, I decided to check for myself whether what he said was true or not.
I turned down the call and used my bike to went towards the location that was told.
There I saw both of my parents, their bodies mangled but still discernable if one looks closely.
Everything felt so surreal, the suprise left me questioning my own reality.
That day I realized that the world is much crueler than I expected it to be.
Since then, I've been living on my own. Continuing their legacy, protecting the place where their memories still linger.
Now I live in a cramped apartment two blocks away, just close enough that I can come here every day.
Not that there's exactly much to come for.
The store is always quiet, Too quiet in fact.
The kind of quiet that wraps around your bones, making you forget what laughter sounds like.
Most days, I just clean the shelves, adjust the displays, and dust the relics from a time no one seems to care about anymore.
Porcelain figurines, old record players, faded books with broken spines.
Sometimes, the air smells like cinnamon and varnish, the way it did when I was a kid watching my dad tinker behind the counter.
Once in a while, someone will walk in a curious college student, an old lady chasing nostalgia but they rarely buy anything.
The world has moved on from things that can't light up or beep.
Still, I hold on.
Maybe it's foolish.
Maybe I'm stuck.
But this store is the last piece of them I have. every corner holds a memory I held dear.
My mother arranging glassware in the front window, humming a tune I can't remember the name of.
My father scribbling prices on tiny tags, always mumbling that he should've gone digital but never quite learning how.
Letting go of this place would feel like erasing them from the world.
I shut the door and let out a sigh that felt too heavy for my chest.
Today wasn't just another slow day it was their day, their death anniversary.
Three years, and it still feels like yesterday.
I didn't have the strength for flowers or grave visits this year.
Grief is weird like that.
It doesn't always cry or scream.
Sometimes, it just exists.
A dull ache at the back of your throat, a weight behind your eyes.
So I went to the grocery store next door, to pick up a few cans of the cheapest alcohol I could find.
I didn't even check the labels, just grabbed, paid, and walked out.
When I finally reached my apartment, I unlocked the door and muttered. "I'm home" to no one in particular.
The words came out automatically.
Hollow, but comforting in a strange way.
'Habits die hard' I thought, chuckling bitterly as I closed the door behind me.
The apartment was as silent as the shop.
The soft hum of the refrigerator, the occasional groan of old pipes.
I collapsed onto the couch, tossed my keys on the coffee table, and cracked open a can.
The bitter, metallic taste hit my tongue, but I barely noticed.
I wasn't exactly drinking for the flavor afterall.
Can after can, the room began to blur. My thoughts drifted to everything and nothing.
My parents, the store, the loneliness that wrapped around my life like an invisible blanket.
The alcohol dulled the sharp edges of the day, until finally everything slipped into darkness.
--The Next Day--
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
A shrill alarm pierced through the fog of sleep.
I groaned, half-conscious, and reached out to silence it, expecting the familiar shape of my old, bulky alarm clock.
But my fingers brushed against something off. something smooth, rectangular, with two small buttons on top.
'What the hell…?' I blinked groggily.
My alarm clock was a fat cylinder with a dent in the side, yet this thing I touched felt sleek like some sort of gadget.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I forced them to open.
The first thing I noticed after waking up was the light in the room was wrong, it was almost cooler, bluish even.
The walls seemed whiter, the surfaces more sterile. Everything seems to belong in some sort of a futuristic movie set.
My eyes darted around, searching for something familiar, anything.
And there it was, the photo. The old family photo of me, Mom, and Dad. Still sitting on the shelf directly across from the bed, just like I remembered.
But the shelf itself was different, the material looked metallic.
The bed frame was curved, futuristic-looking.
The window blinds were replaced by automated glass that shifted shade at the touch of a button.
'Okay, what is going on?' I thought, still in disbelief.
At first, I told myself I was still drunk. Or dreaming. Or having a weird post-alcohol hallucination.
But then I sat up, pulling my hand into my view.
My breath hitched.
My hand or what should've been my hand was aged full of wrinkles, with the skin sagging around like brittle knuckles.
Meanwhile liver spots dotted my fingers, while my nails were yellowing.
Gone were the antique watch on my right arm, instead some sort of white band replaced it.
Panic surged through me like a cold wave.
*buzz* *buzz* *buzz* the white band in my hand started shaking, but in my panic I decided to ignore it.
I scrambled out of bed, ignoring the ache in my joints. Everything about my body felt different, it was much slower, heavier even.
"No, no, no," I whispered, stumbling toward the window.
I slapped the glass panel beside it, expecting old curtains. Instead, the glass flickered to transparent, revealing the world outside.
My heart almost stopped.
Gone was the tiny neighborhood park, gone were the trees I used to watch sway in the wind.
The neighborhood cats that fought on the sidewalks, the old vending machine with faded buttons.
Rather it was now filled with towering skyscrapers, floating platforms, and neon signs blinking midair.
The massive hologram clearly displaying a familiar face, cast a shifting glow across the skyline.
People below moved like robots in a mechanical routine, all wearing full body clothes and masks while bringing what seems to be an umbrella.
*Plak* *Plak* *Plak*
I slapped my own cheeks with both hands.
With each slap the white band in my arm kept shaking louder.
It stung bad.
It rang hard.
Most importantly, it did not wake me up.
My mouth hung open as I took a shaky step back from the window.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't a drunken trip.
No dream can be this real, no drunken trip could be this clear. Something had happened to me, to the world, to everything.
"What had happened?" I mumbled out of fear
Had I been out for days? Years? Decades?
My mind raced.
I stumbled toward the mirror, avoiding the unfamiliar lights embedded in the walls.
When I saw my reflection, I nearly reeled backward.
'I've seen this face before, haven't I?' I questioned, my mind quickly going through where I've seen this face before.
Not even a second after that the answer struck inside my mind
'Isn't this that weirdly familiar man, whose face was just on that billboard?'
The man staring back at me wasn't the 21 me. He was at least 60. His face marked with age, with wrinkles covering nearly every part of it.
His long hair filled with grey, screams clearly of old age.
But most importantly were his eyes
His eyes were dim, but for a brief period a flicker of light seems to ignite inside of it.
I know this might be insane, yet I felt that they were somehow my face.
Same brown hue, same tired look. and after some careful consideration, nearly identical face features, shape, and outline.
Somehow, I had aged. Or time had leapt forward. Or the world had. I didn't know. Nothing made sense.
'What kind of drugs did I accidentally take last night?' I thought desperately, clutching my temples.
But the dull ache in my joints, the unfamiliar stiffness in my muscles, the continous sensation from the band buzzing in my hand.
All of them combined had Forced me to swallow the bitter truth, the fact that all of this was definitely real and I was no longer in the world I knew.
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