Eric entered the shop with his chest tight. The air smelled of dust and rust; piles of items scattered across the floor revealed the violence that had taken place moments earlier. Two men, messy and filthy, were tossing boxes and objects into the center of the store while a young Chinese woman knelt on the ground, her trembling shoulders hunched as she swept up shards of shattered glass. Her face had collapsed into tears, and her sobs were soft, almost swallowed by the noise of destruction.
Eric looked around. It was like the pawnshop where he had sold his first coin — the same kind of decay — but two, three times worse. A fallen shelf, ripped price tags, crumpled "we buy gold" posters. If he had left work a little later, the shop might have been closed. Tonight it seemed open only by misfortune.
"Good evening, I'd like to speak with the owner," Eric said, pulling a blank sheet of white paper from his pocket. He folded it with trembling hands and raised it as if it were an official notice. It was a completely empty sheet; the lie, he estimated, had a fifty-percent chance of working. The other fifty percent… were harder to calculate and would most likely end with him dead.
The men stopped. The smaller of the two — who was actually broader and taller than Eric — glared at him with disdain. "Who are you?" he asked, voice rough.
Eric answered with the same question, flipping the table on them. "Who are you? Are you the shop owners? Are you the ones responsible for getting me cited in a lawsuit because of a purchase made here?"
Both men frowned. Behind them, the young woman — panting — finally lifted her head.
"Who are you? I've never served you in this store!" she exclaimed, eyes wide.
Eric pointed the folded paper at her, hand steady. "Don't pretend you don't know me. I already called the police. They'll be here any moment, and you — and whoever owns this place — will have to explain how you made me buy stolen jewelry."
At the word "police", the two men exchanged a quick glance and, without haste, began backing away. They were indeed loan sharks, but smart enough to flee the moment the authorities were mentioned. One turned and walked out the door; the other hesitated, then followed. The young woman watched them leave with an expression that mixed relief and hatred.
For almost a full minute, Eric kept up the act, maintaining his accusatory tone. But then a flicker of shame pierced him. The girl on the ground began trembling even more; there was something fragile there that his threats had exposed. He suddenly felt embarrassed by the harshness of his own voice.
He stopped. Took a breath. Extended a hand as a gesture of truce.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice softer now.
The young woman sniffled, unable to answer. Her dark eyes burned with indignation as he apologized.
"I'm sorry about the performance, but… you looked like you needed help."
The words struck her. She stood up quickly, wiped her tears with her sleeve, and straightened her posture as if regaining control.
"I don't need your help. Please leave now, I need to close," she said, her voice sharp, trying to reclaim authority.
She was still trembling — perhaps from the violence, perhaps from fear the men might return. Eric took in her appearance: a thin frame, work-roughened hands, a coat too simple for the cold night. Around them, the shop revealed the haste of someone who had to close fast — and survive even faster.
But something else stirred inside him. It was a pawnshop; and in pawnshops, Eric thought as he glanced quickly at the shelves, there was only one argument that could silence an owner or an employee:
Real value placed right on the counter.
With deliberate slowness, he pulled out the gold coin he had kept hidden. He placed it on the counter, clearly visible. The dark, worn surface of the counter made the gold gleam even brighter. The metallic clink sounded like a tiny trumpet.
The young woman froze. Closed her mouth. An involuntary spark crossed her eyes.
"It can't be!" she gasped, her voice cracking.
"Is this pure gold?" she asked, unable to hide the tremor in her tone — curiosity overpowering anger.
Eric smiled, a small, weary smile.
"How much are you willing to pay for it?"
Silence fell, heavy as stone. She approached the counter with hesitant steps, as if trying not to be deceived by desire. She reached out, touched the coin with fingers as delicate as porcelain. She looked at the mark stamped in its center — a large raised X — and shook her head slightly, incredulous.
"I don't know… it depends on where it came from. It depends… on who it belongs to."
"It's mine," Eric said. "I can't prove it's an heirloom, no paperwork. But it's real. And I need to sell."
She studied him. For the first time, her mask cracked. There was something hard in the lines of her face — a tired determination.
"If it's real gold," she said, hesitating, "I can't pay market price. Not with this shop — not today. I can pay… 600 euros for it. And I can sell it wholesale; maybe I can get more from the right buyer. But I can't promise anything beyond that now."
The offer hit like a cold stone. Eric felt a sting of disappointment — memories of the 500-euro offer from the old pawnshop owner — but also a thread of relief. It was more than he had received before, and at this moment every euro mattered.
"If you accept, I'll take it and… I'll pay you now. No questions. No paperwork," she added quickly.
Eric weighed her words. Twenty-six coins still waited for him at home. Selling one for 600 euros wouldn't ruin him — quite the opposite, it would buy him breathing room. But on the other hand… who knew if he could get more? The system needed ordinary coins; his source was the convenience store. Each converted coin was potential gold.
The noise from the street drifted through the half-open door. It was the only thing separating them from everything outside. Eric thought about the landlady, the overdue rent, Mr. Foster, the pawnshop owner, the two thugs from earlier. He also thought about the young woman, alone among broken mirrors, behind a dirty counter, trying to keep her shop alive.
"If you really believe it's pure gold and you trust me," she said finally, "I'll give you the 600 now. If you want to risk selling it for more, fine — I understand. But don't make me wait. I have bills to pay, and I… need to close today."
Eric looked at the coin — then at the young woman. The choice seemed obvious, yet carried a weight he wasn't expecting. He smiled, exhaustion now mingling with a faint streak of hope.
"I accept," he said, handing her the coin.
When her hand closed over the gold, the shop became just a shop again — with shelves, doors, and flickering lights.
Eric watched the young woman empty her register, gather every coin she had, then disappear through a narrow back door behind the counter. She returned holding several crumpled low-value euro notes, as if she had barely managed to scrape together the amount she had promised.
"Here… 600 euros," she said, handing him the money in a messy bundle of notes and coins — so many that he could barely carry them, proof of how hard it had been for her to gather the sum.
He accepted it. He had gone there to sell a coin… but he had likely found something much bigger.