Clara walked out into the rain, but she didn't feel the cold. The red brooch acted as a tiny, burning sun, finally back where it belonged.
Elias, a man who looked as though he were made of parchment and silver hair, peered over his spectacles. "Many have tried, dear. But that piece is particular. It doesn't like being bought; it likes being earned."
Clara had walked past it every day on her way to the library. To her, it wasn't just jewelry. It was the "Red Brooch"—the one her grandmother described in stories of a lost inheritance.
