The room beyond the door smelled of burnt wax and wet earth, heavy with the faint sweetness of something long buried. She couldn't place it, yet it tugged at her chest with an ache that was both familiar and unwelcome. Candlelight flickered across the walls, elongating shadows into forms she almost recognized—faces of people she had never met, yet somehow knew, layered over memories she had thought she buried.
"Stay close," the Collector whispered, his hand brushing hers briefly—not enough to claim, but enough to anchor. "This place doesn't forgive wandering."
"I'm not wandering," she said, though her voice shook. Her gaze swept the room. It wasn't large, not by any city standard, but it seemed endless. Candles of all shapes and sizes filled shelves, tables, even the floor. Each flame burned differently: some flickered with hesitation, others blazed with harsh certainty, and a few burned so brightly they almost seemed to float.
"Each candle is a life," the Collector continued, his voice low, reverent. "Or what's left of it."
She flinched at the words. "What do you mean?"
"The market," he said, "doesn't just sell objects. It sells time, regrets, memories, love… everything that makes you human."
She tried to look away, but her eyes kept catching flames that twitched and bent as if alive. She noticed one candle in particular—a short, nearly spent thing, its wax pooled unevenly around the base. The flame leaned toward her, almost touching her cheek. Her breath caught.
"That one…" she whispered. "It feels… sad."
"Yes," the Collector said softly. "That candle belongs to someone who has lost everything and refuses to let go." He paused. "Sometimes, the market saves them. Sometimes… it doesn't."
She swallowed hard. "And if I touch one?"
"Then it will show you what you need to see." His gaze met hers, steady, unwavering. "Not what you want. What you need."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to run. Every instinct screamed to turn and find a normal street, a normal city, a life that didn't twist with invisible hands. Yet a small, stubborn part of her—a part she didn't like admitting—curved toward the flame.
Because the ache in her chest wasn't just grief. It was hunger.
She reached for the candle. The moment her fingers brushed its wax, the air shifted. The flame flared, throwing shadows in jagged, impossible shapes across the walls. Images flooded her mind: laughter she hadn't heard in years, a voice calling her name, a hand reaching out and vanishing before she could grasp it.
Her eyes flew open. The room was still, yet she could feel the weight of what she had just glimpsed pressing against her soul.
"You see," the Collector said, his voice almost gentle now, "the market doesn't lie. It doesn't exaggerate. It shows you what already exists within you, waiting to be acknowledged."
"I—" she started, then stopped. Her throat was tight. How could she explain the ache of memories that weren't entirely hers? Faces she didn't recognize, yet felt she had known? "I… I don't understand."
"You will," he said. "But only if you accept it."
Acceptance. The word felt impossible. She had spent her life resisting what she couldn't control. Now the market demanded it.
The aisle shifted suddenly, subtly. Candles flickered in unison, drawing a path deeper into the room. They moved like a living guide, illuminating a narrow corridor lined with more shelves, more flames, more impossible things.
She followed, steps tentative. Every sound she made seemed to echo, amplifying her unease. She noticed how the air hummed, not like wind, but like a memory vibrating just beneath her awareness.
"Why does it hum?" she asked.
"Because memories are alive," the Collector said. "They persist even when we try to forget."
A shadow moved at the corner of her eye. She spun, heart leaping, but saw nothing—only flickering candles, the endless shelves, the corridor stretching farther than any room should.
"You're safe," he said. "But this place can sense fear. And it feeds on it."
"I'm not afraid," she said quickly, though the truth was different. The market didn't frighten her in the usual sense. Fear here was sharper, subtle, like the ache in her chest—it demanded attention, not avoidance.
They reached a small table in the corner. Candles of every size were stacked neatly, their flames bending toward her as if drawn to something in her very soul. One candle, slightly taller than the rest, pulsed with a gentle warmth. She felt it in her hands before she touched it, a resonance that made her chest ache and throat tighten.
"Take it," the Collector said. "But be careful. The market responds to intent, not action. Your desire, your hesitation, your fear—they all matter."
She hesitated. Desire and fear twisted together in her chest like opposing tides. Her fingers brushed the candle, and the flame leapt higher, blinding her for a moment. Then, as quickly as it had flared, it settled into a steady glow.
Images came again. Not fragmented this time, but vivid and immediate. She saw herself, walking through a sunlit street she didn't recognize, laughing with someone whose face she couldn't make out. Then the laughter turned to screams, the street darkened, shadows swallowing her companions. She fell, reaching for them, but they were gone. Only the ache remained.
She gasped, dropping the candle onto the table. The Collector caught it before it could fall further.
"Enough for now," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You've seen what you were meant to see."
"Was that real?" she whispered.
"What matters is that it feels real," he said. "The market doesn't care for distinctions between reality and memory. It cares for consequences."
She shivered, trying to shake off the weight pressing her down. Her hands trembled, her chest tight. "Consequences of what?"
"Of ignoring the past," he said. "Of refusing to acknowledge what is lost."
The room seemed to pulse around them. The candles flickered as if affirming his words. Shadows danced across the walls, forming shapes that almost looked human. She could feel them observing, waiting, curious about her reactions.
"I don't want to do this," she said.
"You already are," he said softly. "The market doesn't wait for permission. It notices, it selects, and it reveals. You cannot unsee what you have glimpsed. You cannot unfeel what you have felt."
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to scream, to run, to throw herself against the walls until the illusions broke. And yet, she couldn't move. Something rooted her in place, an invisible cord tethering her to the flames.
The Collector stepped closer. His presence was grounding, a solid weight against the shifting room. "This is only the beginning," he said. "There will be choices. There will be pain. And there will be… rewards, of a sort. Only one thing is certain: you will never leave unchanged."
She nodded slowly, unable to speak. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to resist. But resistance felt meaningless here. The market responded to what she carried within her: grief, longing, curiosity, fear. The flames around her leaned in as if to draw it all out, and she realized with a jolt that she didn't want them to stop.
Not entirely.
The Collector's eyes held hers, steady and unwavering. "Come. There is more to see, and time is short."
She followed him into a narrower aisle, past rows of candles whose flames swayed like living creatures. Each step she took felt measured, deliberate, a careful negotiation with the market itself. Every glance revealed possibilities she couldn't comprehend—objects she couldn't name, figures she couldn't recognize.
A low hum filled the room. She realized it wasn't the candles or the market—it was her. Her heart, her pulse, her presence. Every ounce of longing she had carried, every memory she had buried, every grief she had tried to ignore—it vibrated in resonance with the air around her.
The Collector glanced at her. "Do you feel it?"
"Yes," she said, breathless. "Too much."
"That's why you're here," he said simply. "The market senses what you hide from yourself. It will give it back to you, one way or another."
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She didn't fully understand what that meant, but she felt the truth of it in her bones.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew that the ache—the constant, gnawing emptiness—was about to find its reflection in this strange, impossible place.
Because the Ghost Market was patient. And it always got what it wanted.