Antique Shop TG
The antique shop smells of aged wood and forgotten promises, its air heavy with the weight of stories trapped in every trinket and tarnished relic. I weave through the cluttered aisles, my sneakers scuffing against the worn floorboards, my fingers grazing chipped teacups and faded velvet cushions. I’m Ethan, a grad student buried under deadlines and student loans, here to find a cheap but thoughtful birthday gift for my sister, Clara. She’s always loved quirky, old things—objects with a past—so this dusty shop in the heart of town feels like the perfect place to hunt. But there’s a prickle at the back of my neck, a sense of being watched, and it’s not just the flickering lamplight casting shadows across the shelves.
Behind the counter sits Mira, an older woman with silver-streaked hair pinned loosely at her nape, her sharp green eyes tracking me with a knowing glint. Her name tag is pinned to a patchwork shawl that drapes over her shoulders, and her fingers, adorned with heavy silver rings, tap rhythmically on the counter. There’s something about her—maybe the sly curve of her smile or the way her gaze seems to peel back layers I didn’t know I had—that makes my stomach twist with unease. “Looking for something special, dear?” she asks, her voice a low, velvet purr, laced with an amusement that feels too intimate, like she knows something I don’t.
“Just a gift,” I say, keeping my tone clipped as I avoid her eyes. I’m not here for small talk; I just need something unique and under twenty bucks. My gaze catches on a small, ornate mirror tucked between a cracked vase and a stack of yellowed books. Its frame is carved with delicate vines and roses, the wood polished to a dark, gleaming finish, but the glass is faintly clouded, like it’s holding a secret behind its surface. I pick it up, and it’s heavier than it looks, warm against my palms, almost vibrating with a subtle, unsettling energy.
Mira leans forward, her rings glinting as she props her chin on her hand. “Oh, that’s a treasure,” she says, her voice dripping with something I can’t quite name—mischief, maybe, or something darker. “They say it shows you who you’re truly meant to be. Care to take a peek?” Her words are teasing, but there’s an edge to them, a challenge that makes my skin prickle. I’m not superstitious, but something about the mirror pulls at me, like it’s whispering my name. I shrug off her cryptic pitch and hold it up, expecting to see my usual reflection—tall, lanky, with messy brown hair and bags under my eyes from too many late nights.
At first, it’s just me in the glass, all sharp angles and tired lines. But then the surface ripples, like a stone dropped in still water, and my reflection blurs. A jolt shoots through me, sharp and electric, locking my fingers around the mirror’s frame. My heart kicks against my ribs, and I try to pull away, but my hands won’t move. “What the hell—” I start, my voice cracking as I glance at Mira. She’s watching me, her smile widening, her eyes gleaming with a predatory delight. “What is this thing?” I demand, my pulse racing.
“Just a little gift,” she says, her voice soft and dangerous. “You’re so… predictable, Ethan. Always rushing, always stressed. I thought you deserved something more… vibrant. Let it happen, love. It’s already started.” Her words coil around me, and I want to snap back, to drop the mirror and bolt, but my body feels anchored, heavy with a heat that’s blooming in my chest and spreading like wildfire.
The warmth surges, and I stumble, gripping a nearby shelf as my knees wobble. My skin feels too tight, like it’s stretching and shifting, and a low, aching pulse starts deep in my core. I look down, my breath hitching as I notice my jeans—once snug—starting to sag at my waist. I’ve always been tall, just over six feet, but the shelves seem to loom higher now, the world tilting upward. My sneakers feel loose, my feet sliding inside them, and a cold realization hits me: I’m shrinking. I must be barely five feet now, maybe less, and the thought sends a spike of panic through me. I’ve always liked my height, the way it gave me presence, and now it’s slipping away, leaving me small, vulnerable. My jeans pool around my ankles, the cuffs dragging on the floor, and my T-shirt hangs like a tent, the sleeves dangling past my wrists. I feel exposed, like a kid playing dress-up, and the humiliation burns in my cheeks.
“Mira, stop this,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean, but it comes out wrong—higher, softer, with a tremor that doesn’t sound like me. She steps closer, her shawl brushing the counter, her scent like lavender and something sharper, like iron. “Oh, darling, why fight it?” she murmurs, her eyes locked on mine. “You’re becoming something exquisite. Don’t you feel it? The potential in you, waiting to bloom?”
The heat shifts, pooling in my chest, and I gasp as a new sensation takes hold—a soft, swelling pressure. My flat pecs, always lean from years of neglecting the gym, begin to soften, rounding into gentle curves. I press my hands against them, horrified, feeling the tender weight of small breasts forming beneath my shirt. The fabric, still loose, brushes against them, and the sensitivity sends a shiver through me, equal parts shame and something else—something warm and unbidden that makes my face flush hotter. I shake my head, trying to deny it, but the mirror, still clutched in one trembling hand, shows a stranger’s body taking shape—petite, with a delicate frame that feels so wrong, yet so alive.
My hips ache next, a deep, throbbing pressure that makes me clutch the shelf tighter. I feel my bones shift, widening, my jeans sliding lower as my hips flare into soft, undeniable curves. The denim clings just enough to highlight the new shape, and I stumble, my balance off, my center of gravity all wrong. I’m not just shorter now—I’m softer, my legs slimmer, my thighs brushing together in a way that’s foreign and intimate. The shop feels vast around me, and I’m acutely aware of how small I’ve become, how every movement feels like a betrayal of who I was.
The worst comes when the heat pools lower, in my groin, and a sharp, twisting sensation makes me cry out. I clutch at myself, desperate to hold onto something familiar, but the changes are relentless. My penis pulses, a forceful pressure building, and I feel a sudden, overwhelming release—an involuntary ejaculation that leaves me trembling, my body expelling the last traces of my old self. The sensation is intense, almost dizzying, and I gasp as my testicles draw inward, reshaping into something new, something internal—ovaries, I realize, the word hitting me like a wave. The skin below tightens, parting softly, forming delicate folds that are warm and sensitive. My shaft softens, shrinking, the tip morphing into a small, nerve-rich bud that sends a jolt of pleasure-pain through me when I shift. I’m horrified, but my body responds despite me, a faint warmth spreading, and I hate how it feels—how it’s both violation and seduction, pulling me apart and knitting me into something new.
My thoughts are slipping, growing hazy, and I fight to hold onto them. I’m Ethan—sharp, analytical, always juggling a dozen deadlines. But new thoughts creep in, soft and unbidden: the feel of silk against my skin, the way a dress might sway when I walk, the urge to smile and be seen. I shake my head, trying to focus, but a name whispers in my mind—Lily. It’s not mine, but it fits, like a glove sliding over my hand, and that terrifies me. I don’t want to be Lily, this small, curvy girl with a head full of fleeting, feminine desires, but my resistance is fraying, and I feel myself slipping, like I’m drowning in a tide of someone else’s life.
My skin darkens slightly, a warm, golden-brown hue spreading across my arms, my face. I catch a glimpse in the mirror, and the girl staring back is a stranger—petite, with wide, doe-like eyes and dark, wavy hair that cascades over her shoulders. My features have softened, my jawline rounded, my lips fuller, and I look younger, maybe eighteen, with an innocence that feels like a mask. My voice, when I try to speak, is high and lilting, and I hate how it sounds, how it makes me feel small and fragile. “Mira, please,” I manage, but my words are weak, tinged with a softness that makes me cringe. “I don’t want this.”
She steps closer, her fingers brushing my arm, her touch cool and electric. “Oh, Lily,” she says, her voice a low, sultry hum. “You’re so much more than that tired boy you were. Look at you—soft, radiant, alive. Don’t you feel it? The way your body hums with possibility?” Her words are a caress, and I hate how they stir something in me, a flicker of curiosity about this new form, this new self. I want to fight, to scream, but my body responds to her touch, my skin tingling, my breath catching in a way that feels too intimate, too right.
I force myself to focus, to cling to Ethan, to the life I know. “Change me back,” I say, my voice trembling but firm. “I’m not your doll.” Mira’s smile falters, just for a moment, and I see a flicker of something—respect, maybe, or surprise. “You’re stronger than I thought,” she says, tilting her head. “But the mirror’s gift isn’t so easily undone. You’ll carry Lily with you, always. The question is… will you fight her, or embrace her?”
The mirror glows faintly in my hands, its warmth pulsing against my skin, and I realize it’s not just a tool—it’s a challenge, a choice. I could smash it, run from this shop and never look back, but part of me wonders what it would be like to let go, to step into Lily’s life, if only for a moment. My thoughts are a tangle of Ethan and Lily, of resistance and curiosity, and I stand there, small and trembling, caught between who I was and who I might become. Mira watches, her eyes gleaming, but she steps back, giving me space. “The choice is yours, love,” she says, her voice softer now, less cruel. “But you can’t stay in between forever.”
I take a shaky breath, my new body still foreign, still humming with sensations I don’t understand. The shop is quiet, the air heavy with possibility, and I know this moment will define me—whether I fight to reclaim Ethan or explore the strange, seductive pull of Lily. For now, I hold the mirror tighter, my reflection flickering between two selves, and I step toward the door, unsure of where I’m going but determined to find out.