“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.”

The woman across from him, Elena, kept her hands buried deep in the pockets of her wool coat. She hadn’t taken it off, despite the radiator humming warmly in the corner.

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.

Arthur placed the ring in a small, numbered plastic bag and watched Elena walk out into the gray afternoon. He knew that by tomorrow, he would have polished away the microscopic scratches of her grandmother's life, and the ring would sit in the front window, waiting to become the beginning of someone else's story.

“It is indeed French,” Arthur murmured, more to himself than to her. He spotted the tiny eagle’s head hallmark stamped into the outer shank. “And exceptionally well-preserved. You didn’t wear it often?”

“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.