It'll be a beautiful day, she had said. You won't need an umbrella, or a coat. So when I felt the first drops of rain on the back of my neck I cursed my mother for her tireless optimism.
But this was just a shower, nothing more, it would pass in a few minutes. We were in Spain, not Wales! But the rain only became heavier, soaking through my thin shirt.
It was no longer an option to stay outside, so without even looking up I pushed open the door nearest to me.
A brass bell above the door sounded loudly. The door swung shut behind me and all noise vanished. It was like the shop had been enveloped in cotton wool.
When my eyes adjusted to the dim fluorescent lighting I realised I was in some kind of antique shop. A thick layer of dust coated every artefact on the shelves. The bell hadn't brought anybody to the cluttered desk so I thought I'd just take a look around while I waited for the rain to pass.
The shop didn't appear to specialise in anything. There was a mishmash of clocks, wooden boxes, vases, statues. The whole right wall was covered in books of different shapes, sizes and conditions, while the left displayed some beautiful paintings and artwork.
I could feel the raindrops drip down my back and into my underwear. In this heat, at least I would dry quickly.
I walked down a narrow aisle until I reached the end where there was an enormous chest. Even me, at six foot could have curled up in there and closed the lid. It was full of junk mainly, bits of twisted metal that no longer resembled anything. But something caught my eye, something brass.
I gripped the handle tightly and pulled. With a great wrench it was released and I realised what I had in my hand was a lamp. It was covered in inscriptions and fine detail in a language I didn't recognise. It certainly wasn't Spanish. It immediately reminded me of Aladdin, a magic lamp. Maybe I would discover a genie and get to make three wishes I thought with childish glee. I even gave it a cursory rub before laughing at myself and dropping it back into the chest.
I made my way back to the window and peered out through the grime. It was still pouring down. Do I brave the weather or hang about a bit longer? I didn't get to make my decision, as the owner of the shop emerged through a plan wooden door behind the counter.
"Buen dia," he said, wish an open smile.
The man must have been in his seventies. He had no hair on his head but a white moustache and wore round spectacles on a bulbous nose. He dressed fairly plainly in a white shirt and waistcoat and the skin on his arms seem to hang off him.
"Hola," I said, hesitantly.
Thankfully, he picked up on my lack of language skills. "I see you are not from these parts."
What gave it away, my pale skin and fair hair? Or the camera swinging from my neck?
"No, I'm on holiday with my family," I said, moving towards the counter.
"Then welcome my dear," he said, clasping my hand.
As he took my hand I felt a jolt of electricity. It was like a burst of static from his hand to mine. Considering his wrists and fingers were gnarled with arthritis he had a surprisingly strong grip.
"Something seems to be troubling you," he said. I tried to remove my hand but he would not let me. After only a moment I stopped worrying about that, I felt myself relax. It felt like I had known this old man for years.
"Money. This holiday is practically free because of our relatives but my Mum and I barely have two cents to rub together," I said, like pouring my heart out to him was perfectly natural.
"Anything else?"
"My Dad is sick. It's terminal and I don't know what I'm going to do when he's gone." I blinked back tears from my eyes and tried to keep it together.
"What else is there?" he said, soothingly, using his thumb to stroke the back of my hand.
"I think my little brother is taking drugs, and I'm scared for him."
That last statement came out in a 'whoosh'. I'd never shared that with anybody, not even my mother.
The old man let go of my hand and all of a sudden all the noise came rushing back, car horns in the street, the sound of rain on the roof, the ticking of the clocks. I felt light headed and thirsty all at once.
"Are you alright my dear?" asked the shop owner, concern in his eyes.
"I just think I need to sit down," I said, plonking myself in a conveniently placed wooden throne.
"You take as long as you need," he said, "I'll get you something to drink." He tottered off back through the wooden door.
He must have been gone for about fifteen minutes when I gave up waiting. The rain had stopped and I felt generally healthier than I had before. I decided to wait no longer and continue on back to the villa.
When I let myself in through the front door my mother rushed at me, almost knocking me over.
"You'll never believe it!" she cried. Her face was wet with tears but there was a broad grin on her lips.
"What?" I asked, searching for some kind of clue.
"The doctors called. Your father's scan is clear. It's gone, all the cancer is gone." We spent about ten minutes jumping up and down and hugging in delight.
"There's another thing, your brother came to me today. He's been taking drugs but he feels awful about it and wants to get some help so we need to support him. Okay?"
"Of course, of course," I said, feeling slightly peculiar about what was going on.
"Now come inside," she said, whisking me in to enjoy a glass of lemonade.
Two of my 'wishes' had been granted. No, it couldn't be. This was just coincidence nothing more. Genies do not exist and they do not live at the back of antique shops in Spain.
The evening came upon us and I was flicking through the channels trying to find something that wasn't a Spanish soap opera and I happened upon the Euromillions. Something made me pause and something told me to look in my bag. It took me all of two seconds to discover the scrunched up Euromillions ticket that I had never bought and I watched in horror and delight as each number that came up was printed on my piece of paper. This couldn't be happening this wasn't possible. Cue more jumping up and down with my Mum.
The next day I decided to go back to the little antique shop to tell him all that had happened. But as I got closer I discovered it wasn't there. In it's place was a tired old Laundromat. I pressed my nose up against the glass to see if I had made a mistake, but the shape of the room was similar. Some of the clutter had found it's way there too. At the back I could just make out an old man sitting behind a counter, grasping another girl's hand as he had mine. I wished I could talk to her, share my experiences but part of me knew that was not an option. Make them count, I thought. Make them count.
(This was brought to you by a Daily Prompt. For the details, click
here.)
A Night on the Orient Express by Veronica Henry
