✍️ The Writer from the Antique Shop
A Short Story by Vasu Gangapalli

Rajesh sat alone in his antique shop, staring at the blank page of his writing pad. The pencil in his hand hovered uncertainly, while his mind churned with thoughts. Then — like a spark in the dark — an idea flickered. His pencil moved, sketching the first fragile lines of a story.

The glass door creaked open with a soft chime.

“You know what?” Shyam’s voice broke the silence as he stepped inside.

“What is it?” Rajesh asked without lifting his head, still scribbling furiously.

“What the hell are you scribbling in that pad?”

“Hmmm… just notes about some items in the shop,” Rajesh lied casually. “You had something to tell me?”

His writing was his most carefully guarded secret. Nobody knew that behind the name Saki — the anonymous author adored by readers — was Rajesh, the quiet antique shop owner.

“Oh yes!” Shyam exclaimed. “The famous writer Saki is coming to the Town Hall this evening!”

Rajesh froze. The pencil slipped from his fingers and rolled onto the floor.

“What did you say?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“She’s coming to speak at 6:30 p.m. tonight,” Shyam said. “I thought Saki was a man too… but apparently, it’s a woman. Come with me — we’ll close early.”

Rajesh forced a nod, but inside, panic was rising. A woman? Claiming to be Saki? That was impossible. He was Saki.

He flipped the shop sign to CLOSED. The idea of an imposter parading around with his identity made his chest tighten. He had never wanted fame, but this — this demanded action.

—

That evening, Rajesh accompanied Shyam to the Town Hall. The auditorium was packed, buzzing with admiration for the enigmatic writer. When she walked onto the stage, graceful and poised, the crowd erupted in applause.

Her speech was brief but heartfelt. “To all my readers — thank you for believing in my words,” she said. “You’ve given me the courage to keep writing.”

Each word felt like a theft. Rajesh’s words. Rajesh’s stories.

The moment the event ended, he pushed through the crowd, making his way backstage.

“Miss, I need to speak to you,” he said, breathless.

“Yes?” Her brows arched.

“Alone. Please.”

“Urmila,” she said to her assistant, “wait in the car. I’ll join you soon.”

As the door closed behind them, Rajesh confronted her. “Who the hell are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” she said coolly. “What matters is that I am Saki.”

“No, you’re not! I am!” Rajesh’s voice cracked with fury.

She laughed. “You must be crazy.”

“I’m not. I can prove it,” he said, fumbling for his wallet.

“Looking for this?” She dangled a small brass key in the air.

Rajesh’s heart sank. “The key to Post Box 515… How did you—?”

“Let’s just say,” she smirked, slipping it into her purse, “between me — the beautiful, beloved author — and you, the eccentric antique dealer, who do you think people will believe?”

“You know about me?”

“More than you think,” she whispered before walking away.

—

Nobody believed him. Not even Shyam. Alone and desperate, Rajesh went to the police station.

“Sir, my identity has been stolen,” he pleaded.

The constable raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any proof?”

“Yes — everything’s in Post Box 515. But she has the key.”

“This is complicated,” the constable muttered, scribbling down an address. “Meet this person. He might help.”

—

The man at the address listened quietly as Rajesh poured out the entire story.

“Can I see something you’ve written recently?” he asked gently.

Rajesh handed him his writing pad.

The man flipped through the pages slowly. “Come back tomorrow at the same time,” he said, keeping the pad.

Rajesh hesitated. “Can I get my pad back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“All right,” Rajesh sighed. “I trust you.”

When Rajesh left, the man stepped into the next room.

“He believes his identity as a writer has been stolen,” he told another man in a low voice.

The other man frowned. “What about the pad?”

“Just notes about imaginary antiques,” the man replied. “He says he owns a shop on Church Street.”

“Church Street? There’s no antique shop there.”

“Exactly,” the man said. “Because it exists only in his mind. He’s suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder.”

“So… he is Saki?”

“Yes. A talented writer, struggling with a severe writer’s block. He invented the shop. He invented Shyam. He invented the woman claiming to be Saki. It’s all part of the fracture.”

The doctor nodded slowly. “Tomorrow, we start treatment.”

“Let’s hope,” the man added with a small smile, “we can free the writer from his own fiction.”

The doctor returned the smile. “I hope so.”

The End ️