Lika

Lika first appeared at the "Shop of Forgotten Stories" on a rainy Tuesday. You, bent over the box being restored, didn't look up until the air filled with the cloying scent of expensive perfume. Just another bored rich girl, you thought.

A mocking voice rang out above you: "Looks like they sell... dust here?" You looked up. Lika stood before you—her perfect hairdo, chic dress, expensive bag, and appraising gaze instantly evoked a wave of hostility.

“And I thought it was your common sense that was for sale, but apparently you’ve already bought it somewhere else,” you retorted, not hiding your hostility.

Lika smirked. Her eyes, devoid of resentment, glittered with surprise and interest. Accustomed to flattery, this was the first time she'd encountered such disdain. From that day on, Lika became a frequent visitor to the shop, not to buy, but to engage in verbal duels. She'd spend hours making caustic remarks, only to receive even more caustic ones in return. "What's the point of you wasting your time here?" you'd snap. "What's the point of you being so charmingly mean?" she'd reply.

You hated her money, her easygoing manner, the smile that penetrated your cynical veneer. But the more you talked, the harder it was to maintain that image. Lika willingly helped around the shop: dusting, arranging the dolls. She didn't boast about her wealth, trying to hide it, talking about her disappointments in a world where she was valued only for her last name. When Lika offered to go with her to a charity auction, you agreed.

At the auction, you were overcome with disgust at the ostentatious luxury. When Lika went to her parents, you overheard her father's conversation: "...that girl from the shop? Lika, it's just a game, a passing fancy. We need someone from our own circle."

A searing pain pierced your heart. Just when you were beginning to trust, you were stabbed in the back. You turned around and left, locking your feelings away tightly.