The keychain itself is not very spectacular but it is the charms hanging from it that catch your attention.
A delicate golden crescent moon, kissed with filigree swirls and inlaid with tiny seed diamonds. It gleams softly, like moonlight caught in a jeweler's dream.
A silver compass charm, finely crafted with a sapphire pin at its heart, glinting with the promise of direction and destiny. Though small, its precision detail whispers craftsmanship.
A miniature glass vial, wrapped with a slender band of rose gold, holds flecks of crushed opal—glowing with a mystic inner fire. It feels almost like bottled stardust.
A feather charm carved from white gold, studded with microscopic pearls along the vane. It's weightless but regal, a silent symbol of grace.
And dangling playfully at the end, a cat-shaped charm of platinum, its eyes set with jet-black onyx, and a collar sparkling with a single pink diamond. Mischievous and luxe.
They swing together like notes in a music box melody—each one a glimmering keepsake, stitched with memories, magic, and meaning. It's not just a keychain. It's a talisman of quiet elegance, tucked away in the palm of the fakir.
But as quick as you were to be captivated, just as quickly you become dejected. If those are real metal and gems there's no way that you can afford it. How did your Nani even get that thing? Was she a thief as well as an eccentric? How much did this crook pay your nani for this keychain because you had never seen any money from this? Maybe he didn't give her a fair price or maybe the charms weren't real in the first place.
"So, will you buy it?" Asks the fakir, dangling this glittering contraption in front of my face.
"I don't have any money with me," you reply.
"Who said anything about money?" says the fakir.
Your ears perk up at this.
"Well, won't I need to buy this keychain, sir?" I say.
"All I require from you is your old school eraser." States the fakir.
"I don't have my old school eraser with me right now!" You shout confusedly.
"Check your left pant pocket boy," the fakir directs you.
Both your hands flutter to your pant pockets, patting too energetically, and sure enough you feel a bump in your left pant pocket that couldn't possibly be there. Your hands freeze, your body going rigid. Nostrils flaring your hand reaches into the left pocket at a glacial, all the while praying feverently for it to come true. Your fingers close around the smooth object and you pull out your dirty, black, stubby, old school eraser.
Next thing you know, you are sitting in your tea stall making tea for your customers with the treasure laden keychain in your pocket.