Arthur knew. In his forty years behind this counter, he had bought the remnants of broken marriages, the legacy of beloved matriarchs, and the desperate liquidations of the suddenly broke. He didn't just buy gold and diamonds; he bought memories, obligations, and occasionally, relief.

“It was my grandmother’s,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were fixed on a point just past Arthur’s shoulder, where a wall clock ticked away the rainy afternoon. “I was told it was French. Early Art Deco.”

“I can offer you five thousand,” Arthur said gently, sliding his loupe back into his vest pocket. He always gave his best price first to people like Elena. He had no desire to haggle over ghosts.