He walks where silence collects dust, Through alleys filled with silent trust. No neon lights or golden signs are allowed. Just tired eyes and hands like time.
He deals in items that we have discarded— A child's laugh, a summer day, The fragrance of old books, A song we heard but no longer recognize.
His shelves are full, but not with gold. With tales that were once cherished but are now cold. A locket has been misplaced under the floor. A letter is torn, and a door is slammed.
He does not seek money or renown. He only whispers your first name. And if you stay, if you look close, He'll show you what you missed right here.
A promise kept, a word unspoken, The dreams you suppressed in your head. A touch that left without saying goodbye, The version of yourself that died.
He keeps them all without judgment. He weighs each memory with a nudge. And if you choose, you may reclaim. A piece of peace, grief, or flame.
But there is a price—there is always one. To take something, you must leave something undone: A secret revealed, a truth laid bare, A shadow from the soul you carry.
He smiles when you make your trade. Then it packs the past and allows it to fade. You leave uncertain about what you've discovered, But somehow lighter and sound.
The trader fades into the fog, No map exists to locate him, only a list. Of all the things we never see— Still waiting in his memory.