As the composer stepped out of the pawnshop, the door's chime echoed like a faint whisper of the music box's melody. Liang Wei watched the man disappear into the foggy street, feeling the weight of the trade heavy on his chest. The man's legacy, all the beauty he had once created, was now erased—gone from the world as though it had never existed.
"Wei," Mr. Shen's voice broke the silence, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Clean up the counter."
Wei turned to the music box, still sitting on the counter with its haunting gleam. "What happened to him? Who was he?"
Mr. Shen's expression remained unreadable as he glided back into the shadows of the shop. "He was a man who made a choice, like all who come here."
Wei frowned. "But it feels… wrong. I mean, he lost everything—his fame, his work. Why would he do that?"
Mr. Shen paused, his dark eyes lingering on Wei. "Because, sometimes, what we lose is more valuable than what we gain. Desperation drives people to make sacrifices they wouldn't otherwise consider."
Wei's mind churned, trying to grasp the implications of what had just happened. He couldn't shake the feeling that the composer's story was far from over. There was something deeper—something that Mr. Shen wasn't telling him. And the memory of the man's name, once so familiar to him, now felt like it had never existed.
As he cleaned up, Wei's thoughts spiraled. Who was that man, really? How had he lost his muse in the first place? And what had driven him to seek it out again, at such a great cost?
The next night, Wei couldn't stop thinking about the composer. Something inside him pushed him to dig deeper, even though he knew Mr. Shen wouldn't approve. While the shop was quiet, Wei slipped into the back room where Mr. Shen kept the records of past trades. Dusty ledgers lined the shelves, each one filled with the names and stories of those who had come through the Midnight Pawnshop.
Flipping through the pages, Wei's fingers skimmed across the faded ink. Names leaped out at him—people who had exchanged time for talent, memories for moments of joy, or love for wealth. And then he found it.
The name was barely legible, as if it had already begun to fade from existence. But there it was: Wu Tianrui.
A composer of great renown, Wu Tianrui had traded his muse for the fame he craved, believing that the adoration of the masses would fill the void left behind. The details were brief, but the ledger revealed enough: Wu had been young, hungry for recognition, and willing to sacrifice the one thing that made his music unique.
Wei's eyes scanned the rest of the entry. Wu had returned to the shop multiple times, each visit marked by desperation. He had tried other trades—offering wealth, time, even his future—for a chance to reclaim his muse, but nothing worked. Until now.
But the cost had been immense.
"Wu Tianrui," Wei whispered the name to himself, though it felt alien on his tongue. As he repeated it, he realized he could no longer remember the composer's face. Only fragments of their encounter remained—fleeting and incomplete, as though Wu Tianrui had never been real.
"What are you doing?"
Wei jumped, slamming the ledger shut as Mr. Shen appeared in the doorway, his figure half-hidden by shadows. His expression was as calm and unreadable as ever, but Wei felt a surge of guilt wash over him.
"I was just… curious," Wei stammered. "I wanted to know more about him. About why he made the trade."
Mr. Shen moved forward, his presence filling the room like an ominous cloud. "Curiosity is dangerous, Wei. The past belongs to those who lived it, and the trades they make are their own to bear. You should focus on the present—and the future."
Wei frowned, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "But don't you think it's wrong? He lost everything he ever worked for. Isn't there another way?"
Mr. Shen's gaze hardened. "Everyone who comes here has a choice. No one is forced to trade. They know the risks."
"But he didn't—"
"Enough," Mr. Shen's voice was sharp, silencing Wei's protest. "You're my assistant, not my judge. Remember that."
Wei felt his face flush with a mix of anger and embarrassment, but he knew better than to argue further. He was treading dangerous ground.
Later that night, long after Mr. Shen had retired to his quarters, Wei couldn't sleep. The name Wu Tianrui echoed in his mind, refusing to fade as it should have. He tossed and turned, haunted by the composer's story.
Finally, he decided he needed answers. If Mr. Shen wouldn't provide them, he would find them himself.
Wei pulled on his jacket and slipped out of the shop into the cool night air. The city was quiet, the streets empty, save for the occasional distant sound of a car passing by. He had no plan, only an instinct to follow the path that led back to Wu Tianrui's story.
Perhaps there were others who still remembered the man's legacy—others who could tell him the truth about what had really happened to the lost composer.
As Wei ventured deeper into the city, he couldn't help but feel that the Midnight Pawnshop wasn't just dealing in trades—it was hiding something much darker.