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Fiction

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An assortment of shops fringed the quaint streets of the Olde Brooke countryside. Art booths, antique stalls and souvenir kiosks. There was even a purple tent embroidered with stars and crescent moons with a gypsy inside who wore a colourful gown with flower motifs and huge gold baubles in her ears. She gazed into a crystal ball and read colourful decks of cards with pictures to whisper ‘good beginnings’ and ‘happily- ever- afters’ to her customers. The Antiquity Tea Ware store which was uniquely shaped like a huge teapot stood in the centre of a rose garden at the crossroads of this street. Mr. Green, the curator of this age-old shop, was a wizened old man with hair so white that he looked as ancient as the Earth himself. He had a twinkle in his friendly blue eyes and fine lines around it— signs of him smiling and serving everyone…