Author: hachimitsu.ink@gmail.com

The hardest part of owning a collection isn’t the dusting or the space it takes — it’s the moment you have to let something go. Every item I’ve kept has a memory attached to it, a little piece of joy or comfort I held onto during different moments of my life. Letting them go isn’t simple. It feels like saying goodbye to a part of myself. Sometimes you sell things because you have no choice — to keep the lights on, to pay for food, to save something bigger than the objects themselves. Other times, you sell because life pushes you into a corner you never wanted to stand in. But no matter the reason, it hurts. Especially when the person buying it is a stranger who doesn’t know the story behind it, or the effort it took to find it, or the happiness it once brought. I’ve always wished that if I had to part with something, it would go to someone who truly understands — someone who sees the value beyond the price tag, someone who cares. Because these aren’t just things. They’re memories. They’re pieces of love, effort, and time. Through this story, I want to share that feeling — the quiet ache of letting go, the hope that what we cherished finds a good home, and the reminder that sometimes the hardest goodbyes are the ones no one else sees.

My mother has always loved collecting wondrous things. Every item she brought home carried a story — something she rescued, something she cherished, something she believed deserved a second life. Some pieces were priceless, others were simple nostalgic treasures from a time when they were loved by many. I grew up with that same instinct. For me, collecting isn’t clutter — it’s a reward for hard work, a way of holding onto the moments that shaped me. There was even one item I chased for years. It disappeared, returned to the market, then slipped away again just when I finally had the chance to claim it. That loss still lingers with me. People sometimes look at families like mine and call it “hoarding,” or say we make a mess. Those words hurt, because they ignore the meaning behind what we keep. Every object has a memory attached. Every piece brought someone happiness. Through this story, I hope to show the beauty in that — the quiet reasons why we collect, the joy behind each item, and the love that goes into preserving the things that matter to us.

The location in this chapter is inspired by a small antique shop called Main Point. Even from afar, its interior looked beautiful — filled with lanterns, clothing, and genie lamps that felt like hidden treasures. The version shown here is fictional and exists in an alternate reality where Demitri inherits the shop after it has been shut down for many years. The real‑world shop is still open; this is simply a creative reinterpretation shaped to fit the story’s world.

It took me a while to find the right place to anchor the beginning of this story. The antique shop has been part of the earliest drafts of my old series, and returning to it felt like the most personal choice I could make. While the location may resemble a real place, this version exists in an alternate reality — a fictional counterpart shaped for the narrative. Just a small clarification for anyone curious about the setting.

Three quiet scenes, each carrying a different kind of longing. He doesn’t realize it yet, but these moments are shaping a wish that will change everything. Loneliness has a way of revealing what the heart truly wants