Manager: “Apologies don’t cover damages. These pieces are imported crystal. Limited collection. Do you understand what that means?”

The boy shook his head quickly, tears falling faster.

He didn’t understand the words.

He only understood that he had done something terrible.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, he unzipped his backpack.

The zipper sounded too loud in the silence.

Inside, there was almost nothing.

A small cloth pouch.

A few carefully counted coins.

And an old wristwatch—scratched, worn, but polished as if it mattered more than anything else he owned.

He took them out one by one, placing them gently on the floor like offerings.

Boy: “This is all I have… I can give you everything…”

The room didn’t soften.

It grew colder.

The manager bent slightly, picking up a folded piece of paper that had slipped out along with the coins. It looked old, creased from being opened and closed too many times.

She glanced at it casually—

Then froze.

Her expression changed so quickly it was almost unsettling.

The color drained from her face.

Manager: “…Your mother is Rebecca?”

The boy looked up, startled.

He nodded slowly, confused, still crying.

Boy: “Y-yes…”

Something shifted in the room.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was undeniable.

From across the showroom, there was the sharp sound of wood striking marble.

A cane.

An elderly man, who had been standing near the far display, dropped it without hesitation and began moving forward as fast as his body would allow.

Old Man: “Rebecca’s son?!”

His voice cracked, not with anger—but something deeper. Something breaking.

Every phone in the room turned toward him now.

The rich woman’s recording didn’t stop—but her expression changed.

The old man reached the boy, his hands trembling as he looked down at him like he was seeing something impossible.

With unsteady fingers, he reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph.

It was old.

Worn at the edges.

In it, a young woman stood beside him, smiling brightly—right here, inside this very showroom. The same marble floors. The same glass displays.

But the warmth in the photo felt like it belonged to a completely different place.

Old Man: “She’s my daughter…”

His voice barely held together.

The boy stared at the photo, then back at the man.

Something in his expression shifted—not recognition, not yet—but something close.