Dust swirls as I slam the door behind me. Sunrise leaks through the grimy window, catching on every neglected shelf and the thick film of dirt coating each trinket.

My nose prickles. I brace for the sneeze. Same every weekend: more dust, more clutter, fewer customers.

I drop onto the small teak desk’s stool and open the safe. No till—just a battered rusting money tin and a faded leather inventory book. Nothing’s changed in twenty years, at least if the earliest sales record is to be believed.

Shuffling on the rock-hard stool, I cradle my pumpkin spice latte and flick open my social feed. Uncle Marvin would be horrified at my lack of enthusiasm for his “treasure trove,” but at seventeen I’ve given up pretending.

The grandfather clock ticks. I glance up, hoping time has leapt forward. It hasn’t.

The door chime jolts me, nearly sending me tumbling. A hunched figure shuffles in, their small, frail frame barely reaching the counter.

“I’m… I’m looking for Marvin,” comes a voice from beneath the folds of age. “He’s been expecting me.”

“I’m sorry, Marvin isn’t in today. He’ll be back Monday—if you’d like to come again.”

“No, no. It must be today. He has something of mine. I need it now.”

“Right,” I say, uneasy. “Let me check the back. Maybe he left a note.”

The back room is no bigger than a pantry. On the side sits a small, tatty box. No label. No note. But somehow it feels wrong here—out of place.

“Do you know what it looks like?” I call.

“Small white box. No markings… except an elephant’s seal on the bottom.”

I turn the box over. The elephant stares back at me. As I lift it, a shiver crawls up my arm. My breath catches. Still, I carry it out carefully.

The figure snatches it with sudden strength, clutching it to their chest before dashing to the door with surprising speed. The bell jingles. Silence returns.

The shivers don’t leave. I grab my phone and dial Uncle Marvin. No answer.

Cold creeps through me.
What did I just give away—and to whom?