The Cost of Memories

In Which I Should Have Locked The Door

The bell up front hits the door frame with a loud ding, signaling that someone has wandered into the shop. Someone who most likely is not concerned with the business that I conduct in the back; otherwise, they would have used the other entrance.

With a sigh, I push the goggles off of my eyes and reach over to turn off the microscope light. Before I stand up, I touch the energy barrier around the base of the instrument, satisfied when it zaps my finger in return.

The last time I had gotten up to help a customer in the pawnshop and not checked the barrier, I had come back to one of my acquisitions crawling among the jars on the shelves like a spider. It had taken me several hours to catch the escapee, and there were several close calls where jars nearly kissed the cold tiles beneath the shelves.

"I'm coming," I call towards the front, leaning under the table to find that the light indicator for the energy barrier tells me that I have enough power for at least several more hours. I blow a stray curl out of my face before striding towards the curtain that separates the back of the shop from the front.

No matter how many times I sweep through the curtain, it still amazes me how much junk crowds the front room. The pieces of people's lives that they have had to barter away, finding out the price that someone else attaches to what they may hold as priceless. Some of the objects that I am in charge of have been here since before Uncle Pierce died, orphaned by those who either cannot or will not come up with the cash to reclaim them.

I edge past the massive vases that some poor grandma had sold me ("They have to be worth more than that. They have been in the family for generations.") to help fund her grandson's college. She comes in every week to gently dust them off and to add what little money she can spare to the fund to buy them back. I refuse to sell them to anyone else; hence why they make up part of the screen concealing the curtain.

Walking through the maze of objects, I allow my eyes to drift over the shelves. After five years in this business, I can nearly recite the story of each person who sold that watch or those earrings to me. Some of them have come back to place down a deposit, but others have never wandered back in, likely deeming it too difficult to lay eyes on the things they left behind.

Then my gaze catches on the one object that I never expected to set foot in my shop. Finley, my old partner and one of the few people I hoped would never take the time to track me down after I disappeared. He doesn't look much different, his tall lanky frame bent over the counter to examine something through the glass.

My breath hisses through my teeth, destroying whatever words might have leapt off my tongue at the sight of him. Taking advantage of the fact that his back is towards me, I study him like a bracelet that may or may not be made out of real diamonds. As always, his dark hair falls unruly about his shoulders, telling me that he has likely been too busy to get a haircut. He is dressed casually today in a light t-shirt and jeans, which means that he isn't here on official business.

And that allows me to breathe a little easier, knowing that they haven't figured out about the more lucrative business I am running out of my back room. With that worry shoved to the back of my mind, I allow my feet to carry me forward toward the counter.

"What brings you to my shop, Finn?" I ask from behind him, crossing my arms defensively. "This part of town isn't included in your normal routes."

He turns around, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he leans his forearms against the surface of my counter. "You are a difficult lady to find, Mae. A very difficult lady. I had forgotten that your uncle owned a pawnshop; otherwise, my search would have been much easier."