Jake followed a trail of smoke to a building woven from trees. Inside, glass globes hung like fruit, each holding a memory: a child learning to whistle, a market at dusk, hands threading ribbons in soft light.
A woman met him in the aisle. Her hair was braided like a sentence, her eyes calm and exact.
"You've come to borrow." She spoke.
Jake nodded.
The coin in his pocket warmed. She lifted a globe and placed it on a table. Inside, a woman tied a ribbon with practised grace.
"You may borrow one," she said. "Never keep. Memories teach – but they're not yours."
Jake touched the globe. For a moment, he felt the ribbon between his fingers, the warmth of dusk, and the meaning in the gesture. When he let go, the lesson remained – not as a possession but as understanding.
"How do I return it?" he asked.
"When it stops teaching," she said. "You'll know."
She handed him a thin ribbon. "Tie it where you leave the memory. It shows respect."
Jake tied it to his wrist. Outside, the sky had shifted, deepening towards evening. He walked back to the shelter with the ribbon, humming softly and with the quiet sense that this place taught by offering, not demanding.