idiot

Rain pounded the window of my dusty antique shop as I polished a cracked pocket watch that never stopped ticking—its last owner disappeared thirty years ago. I looked up, and our eyes met. "You're the seventh person this month to walk through this door looking for a watch," I said, slowly placing the watch on the floor. "Tell me, how do you know it's really here?" My hand lingers on the cold glass. I await your answer.