A cacophony of smells met Wilson’s nose as he pushed open the door of the pawn shop. A bell on the handle jingled. Mothballs, wood polish, and aged paper all formed a musty perfume that instilled the whole shop with a sense of age. Dark wood paneling lined the walls and ceiling above a carpet the color of mucus. Dust motes floated indolently in the light from the front window. Wilson walked further into the shop, passing a wall of clocks. Suddenly, a chorus of ringing, bongs, and cuckoos assaulted his ears as the time pieces all eagerly competed to announce the hour, from the stately grandfathers standing on the floor to the delicately carved German cuckoo clocks on the wall. Were these the same clocks that had called out from the walls of his grandfather’s house when he was a boy? A woman emerged from a set of bookshelves. Wilson was reminded of an emu he’d seen in Australia. She had a short, rather squashed face with a hooked nose and hooded, bulging eyes, framed by a bob of dark gray hair. Underneath her wrinkled chin hung a waddle of loose skin. To top off the illusion, she cleared her throat in a curious squawking noise.

            “How may I help you?”

            “Oh, I’m just browsing,” replied Wilson. “Nice clocks you have.”

            “Oh yes, several varieties. Fine craftsmanship.” She again made the curious squawking noise and seemed to become lost in thought. Wilson wandered further into the shop and found himself facing a wooden dining chair stacked with enormous old encyclopedia. An ensemble of antique dolls and faded stuffed animals were gathered around an ancient-looking tea set as if waiting for the teddy bear at the head of the table to pour a brew that must have long since grown cold. Nearby was a faded, overstuffed armchair with gilt knobs on the armrests and clawed feet. As Wilson lowered himself into the paisley upholstery, the cushion expelled a cloud of dust that enveloped its occupant, triggering a violent coughing fit. The old lady cackled. She seemed to have just appeared at his side.

            “Comfortable chair, eh?”

            Wilson gave a nod and replied with a cough that he hoped resembled “Yes.”

            “Need some help there?” She offered him a hand.

            Wilson waved it away and squeaked out a feeble. “I’m fine.” He stood, cleared his throat, and said again, more strongly, “I’m fine. Might I trouble you for a—” here he coughed again “—cup of water?” He looked down to brush the dust off his clothing.

            “Of course, my good sir. Give me just a moment.”

            When he looked up, she had disappeared again. Wilson delved deeper into the shop, stopping to admire a chestnut rocking horse. It seemed to run where it stood, with a dusty red rope harness. Wilson ran a hand along its rippling mane, the expertly carved grooves taking his mind back to the old country house, long ago, where he would ride the hills for hours on end.

            “Brave of you to come here!” A tinny voice to his left made Wilson jump. He turned and saw a green painted wooden booth with gilt corners and a glass front. Wilson was greeted from the other side of the glass by a tan visage with curly black hair and a purple top hat. Beady black eyes stared out over a slightly bulbous nose and a fine black mustache curled up over lips that did not move as the voice spoke again: “The Magnificent Zappolino tells your future! But will it be the future you want to hear? Ha-ha-ha!” As it spoke, the wax figure turned its head and waved its arms jerkily. The whirring machinery came to a stop and the Magnificent Zappolino froze in an air of posed enigma, glass eyes staring sightlessly over Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson bent to examine the molding around the edge of the box.

            “Twenty-five cents to hear your future!” said the Magnificent Zappolino, and Wilson started again. The animatronic man waved his arms again, and for an instant, the pawn shop was a carnival Wilson had visited with his father as a boy.

            “Ever since I plugged him in, he won’t shut up.” The old lady had appeared at his side again, glass of water in hand. Wilson thanked her and took a sip. The old lady squawked again.

            “Why keep him plugged in then?” Wilson asked.

            The old lady shrugged. “Shop gets lonely. It’s nice to have someone talking.”

            “Don’t get a lot of customers?”

            She sighed, gazing at the frozen animatronic. “I traffic in forgotten dreams and long dead memories. The people who come through my shop are mostly old and dusty like me, looking for something they’ve lost, or wanting to recapture something of the past.” The lady turned her protuberant eyes on Wilson. “What are you looking for?”

            Wilson stared at his own dim reflection in the glass of the Magnificent Zappolino’s box. The eyes that stared back at him were more lined than he cared to admit. When had his hair gone completely gray? Or was it just a trick of the light? Did the booth that promised the future really show it? What was the future left to him?

“I don’t know.”