The Last Customer

The bell above the shop door chimed its usual, dusty, melancholy note. Marcus didn't look up from the tarnished silver pocket watch he was carefully dissecting. He assumed it was just another tourist who would browse the dusty curiosities for a moment before leaving, disappointed that the "Antiques & Oddities" shop didn't sell cheap keychains.

But the silence stretched.

Marcus finally looked up. The customer was a woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, wearing a slightly old-fashioned, high-collared coat. She wasn't browsing; she was staring intently at a specific item on the top shelf: a small, smooth, river stone sitting in a velvet-lined box.

"Can I help you?" Marcus asked, his voice rough from disuse.

"That stone," she said, her voice soft but clear. "My father told me about it."

Marcus frowned. The stone had been in the shop for fifty years. His father had put it there, claiming it was a "Focus for Singular Recall," a fancy name for a paperweight with a good story. "It’s not for sale."

The woman pulled a small, worn leather pouch from her pocket and placed it on the counter. It jingled with coins that looked vaguely Roman. "Everything has a price, Mr. Thorne. Especially memory."

Marcus paused. He didn't believe in magic, but he believed in currency. He opened the pouch and quickly closed it. The coins were genuine, extremely rare, and worth a fortune. "Fine," he grumbled, taking the stone down.

As soon as her fingers brushed the stone, the air in the shop felt heavy. The woman closed her eyes. A soft, warm light emanated from the stone, and the dusty smell of the shop was momentarily replaced by the sharp, clean scent of sea salt and pine trees.

Marcus blinked, confused. The light faded.

The woman opened her eyes, a profound, peaceful sadness replacing her previous intent focus. "Thank you," she whispered. "I needed to remember his hands. He carved my name on that very stone before he left for the war." She turned and walked out the door. The bell chimed again, sounding a little less lonely this time.

Marcus stared at the Roman coins, then at the empty space where the stone had been. He shook his head, convincing himself it was just a strange interaction with an eccentric millionaire. He turned back to the broken pocket watch, but the air still held the faint, lingering scent of pine