A muffled thump announced the weathered box to the counter, his worn fingers gave way only a few centimetres from a gentle placing. Hamdi stretched, placing his thick arthritic knuckles to the small of his tired, sore back, nuzzling into his soft blended cotton vest. As he twisted, various limbs groaned and complained. His body had become as antique as the items for sale in his shop.
In stereo clocks tucked around the store sounded off at the turn of another long hour. Well past closing, the relic's chimed a reminder to wrap up the day and head home. Weary, and ready for comfort, Hamdi debated the point of heading off. Sales had been slow this month, almost non-existent today, and it wasn't as if he was paid by the hour. There was still work to be done. He sipped his tea, it's warmth long since waned. A stack of donated boxes from an unattended estate sale still sat waiting for scrounging. One last box then he'd knock off. Thus far his dumpster had had more success than Hamdi. Nothing much of note kept, save a few trinkets, a pair of ceramic vases, and a collection of old newspapers.
Musty spores choked the air as Hamdi unfolded the top of the box. His hand grazed over smooth well sanded sides of a beautiful burgundy mantel clock. He flipped the timekeeper over, and adjusted his glasses to a more comfortable point on his nose as he searched for any distinguishing design marks from the maker. There were no clues of note, and was destined to sold for a bargin. It was fine piece, though not exactly sought after in an age of smart watches, phones, and homes.
Fishing further into the cardboard container his gnarled fingers found an ornate oil lamp. Shammy in hand he began a well practised, systematic cleaning. He paused in awe after exposing a depth of colour from beneath a layer of dust. It was magnificent. Between the hypnotic rhythm of the wiping, and the mirror like gloss, Hamdi couldn't help but fall prey to old fantasies of magick lamps, genies, and wishes that had polluted his mind since he first started collecting antiques, and heirlooms as a teenager. Secret hopes that some how his appreciation for neglected treasures may result in untold amounts of wealth, and treasure. A wish he'd never shared, not even with his Hue.
Of course Hamdi knew that the likelihood of a genie or djinn appearing and drenching him in riches wasn't only hopeless, but absurd. That said, the chance of discovering something forgotten, valuable, and life changing was well within the realms of possibility in his profession. That was magick enough. Despite the years Hamdi spent searching, the closest he'd come to such a discovery was watching antiquing, or pawning shows on television. The shop was yet to provide any significant prizes, save for the opportunity to regularly spend quiet nights with his husband.
With the final streak of polish massaged into the piece Hamdi set the lamp on the corner of his desk, and admired the light shining off its curves. No, the shop had not provided him with untold riches, but as his eyes survived the packed shelves, and cluttered walkways he felt satisfied that his home and business were filled with treasure, and joy. These dashes of optimism and gratitude in his moments of doubt were the milk and honey to the bitter in his teas. Rounding and balanced, exactly what he sought after. Hamdi reached into the box again and began retrieving heavy leather bound books.
With a small pile of thick volumes beginning to tower on his desk, Hamdi felt a mild wave of distress. Ever loath to throw anything away, his shop homed too many books as it was. Aside from coveted first editions, he struggled to sell any of them- even with the advantages of online bidding sites. Hamdi cracked open the first book and began his investigation. Behind the flipped cover, before pages of legal texts and transcripts, was a publishing date placing its origin to the mid 1800s. Above it, in pencil, the original owner had marked it with his name, an Otis Philips. Well at least that was something to work with, perhaps he could sell it to a professor, or sentimental student at one the many law schools in the state. A small win, but something none the less. A few volumes of legal anthologies, and diary from the judge that had originally owned them completed the bounty. Ever a nostalgic voyeur, Hamdi began reading the diary. He couldn't help but find a thrill in the random readings of case notes, and verdicts over the course of judge's career. As he was prone to, Hamdi's imagination ran into overdrive peering into the past, peeking into the lives of others. His fingers ran over the indented papers, tracing the letters of the words he read. Of significant less fiscal value than the printed texts, he was still captivated with the found collection of correspondence, drafts of legal documents, verdicts, and letters tucked within the bloated diary. It was under his happy smile that Hamdi stumbled across a few kept love letters. Letters of devotion, and drafts of gentle rejection in response.
A spark of glee in his gut, Hamdi ran to flick the kettle on before letting himself indulge in his discovery. Too impatient to wait for the water to come to a boil, he scooted back to his chair and strained to read the faded handwriting. Hamdi turned the page of a heavily edited draft to find the letter in reference of his subject's response. A gorgeous, poetic confession of love, Hamdi placed his hand over his heart and swooned as his eye's waltzed along the handwriting. The click from the electric kettle went off unnoticed as he read and reread lines. "I am older - tonight, Master - but the love is the same - so are the moon and the crescent. If it had been God's will that I might breathe where you breathed - and find the place - myself - at night - if I can never forget that I am not with you - and that sorrow and frost are nearer than I - if I wish with a might I cannot repress - that mine were the Queen's place..."
Something nagged. There was something so familiar to these words. The cadence, the wordplay. He reached for his phone. As much as he whinged about modern devices, they had become a godsend for his business, aiding in discovering the old brands, histories, and the like.
Hamdi typed "If it had been God's will that I might breathe where you breathed - and find the place - myself - at night" into his search engine. And there it was, the White Myth of Amherst had appeared in his dreary little shop. The actual final versions of the beloved poet's letters tucked away in Judge Otis Phillip's personal diary. Hamdi sat dumbfounded. Here, late on a Tuesday evening, on a cusp of winter, on a day of no significance, his genie had arrived. Hamdi sat paralyzed. As his thoughts raced his body could only tremble with indecision in response. So many questions bubbled to the surface. Should he sell? How would the discovery change his and Hue's lives? Was the change in life worth the riches the letter was worth?
Dumbfounded he sighed. In his daydreams Hamdi had never made it to part after the djinn granted his wishes. He never got to or past the fabled third act. Inevitable lessons, retributions, and balance. And here he was now, on a stool behind the desk of his old antique shop, at a crossroads.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write