A merchant of lost things doesn't have a shop that can be found. No signs or bright lights. His stall materializes when you're not finding, maybe down a peaceful alley, at the dream edge, or nestled in between two forgotten pages of an old book. He does not sell shiny new things or high-tech gadgets. No, his business is in memories, emotions, and fragments—things people believed they would never see again.
You walk up, unaware of how you got there, and he looks at you as if he already knows. "What have you lost? " he asks. Not what you want to purchase, but what you've lost in life. A childhood smile? A letter that was never sent? The sound of someone's voice? He has it all, wrapped in time and dusted in silence.
The shelves are not that usual and no end. A jar that has a baby's first laugh. A key to a door you can't remember. A song you used to know. A friendship that faded without notice. He keeps these items like something important, carefully saved. Not everyone can take it, but those who truly want to remember can.
But there is a cost. The merchant does not deal in cash. You may pay with a tear, a narrative, or a truth you’ve never told anyone. Some leave lighter, while others leave heavier. Some leave with a familiar feeling they didn't even realize they missed.
The merchant does not judge. He only reminds you that nothing is ever truly gone. The things we lose—love, time, words, and even parts of ourselves—go somewhere. And sometimes, if you're lucky, you'll come across the person who keeps them safe.
The merchant of lost things does not advertise. He does not have to. He finds you precisely when you need him the most.