Knowing, Wanting, Needing

He came in with a haunted look in his eyes. A fine suit hung from his frame, slightly threadbare but still lending an air of battered elegance. His gaze caught on the shelves full of jars, clinking gently against each other despite the utter absence of any breeze.

Each seemed to be full of smoke, until you approached them and looked deep: then you saw a snatched moment from within.

A torn white dress. A snapped scarlet thread. A burned-out match.

I broke him out of the reverie as gently as I could.

"Can I help you?"

He started, as all did when they were too close to letting go of this reality.

"Yes, um, I want to trade for a new beginning to my story."

I nodded. Many came to me like this, said just that.

"What about yours?"

He held out his own jar, with a sudden violence, almost thrusting it at me.

"I don't want it. It's not how I thought it would go."

I took it, reverently, letting the fractured glass repair itself in my hands.

"I can't take it from you, you know. But I can give you another."