A Hand of Hope
Eagerness fueling his heart, he pushed the shop's weathered door open and peeked inside.
A cloud of dust swirled around him as the smell of old, almost rotting, wooden furniture caused his nose to scrunch. Each step he took left a fresh trace on the veil of dust that claimed the place.
He turned his head, noticing a row of empty displays seemingly placed randomly before focusing on the counter in front of the illuminated rear room.
He ran his hand over it, feeling the cracks running deep in the withering wood.
Meanwhile, Litia knocked on it twice, breaking the shop's dreary silence.
"Are you still alive, or did you finally stuff yourself with your jewels, old Durgrim?"
An old, raspy voice sprinkled with sick coughs answered.
"And you? Did a mad horse finally run you over, or are you still in one piece?"
A second later, a short figure emerged from the rear room.