The pawn shop sat wedged between a corner deli and a small tax office with faded lettering on its window. A buzzing neon sign flickered weakly above the entrance. Inside, glass cases displayed mismatched watches, old camcorders, tangled gold chains, and dusty collectibles whose stories had long been forgotten. The air smelled faintly of metal, old paper, and furniture polish, layered over years of transactions made in desperation or hope.
The line that afternoon was unusually long. It was payday weekend, and people came to buy, sell, or pawn whatever they needed to get through another month. At the back of the line stood a thin twelve-year-old boy named Caleb Turner.
Caleb looked younger than his age. His sandy brown hair fell slightly into his eyes, and his oversized hoodie, a hand-me-down from his older cousin, nearly swallowed his frame. His sneakers were clean but worn thin at the soles. Slung across his chest was a small canvas bag, the strap frayed where it rubbed against his shoulder.
But what set Caleb apart was the way he stared at the wall behind the counter.
Hanging there among several neglected instruments was a cherry-red electric guitar. The finish had faded in places, revealing faint scratches from years of use. One of the knobs had been replaced with a mismatched white one. Still, it gleamed under the fluorescent lights like something magical.
The tag taped to its headstock read: $125.
Caleb had memorized that number.
He had been coming into the shop every Saturday for the past three months, pretending to browse while silently checking to make sure it was still there. Each time, relief washed over him when he saw it hanging untouched.
