"Oh? You tried those?" The old lady's eyebrows creased her wrinkled forehead. Thomas gave a curt nod.
"A therapist thought I might relate to their misery—that I'd find some light in their struggles. He told me I'd developed a sort of addiction to them, and that it was a 'good sign.' A breakthrough."
"That doesn't sound like bad news."
"It wasn't enough," Thomas said, gesturing toward his chest. "I have something eating me from the inside out much faster than those stories can heal me."
The old lady looked back at the wooden box, her gaze lingering on the single photograph. "Don't you have a family of your own?"
"No."
"Not even a girl you like?"
"I told you," he paused, his gaze drifting to the distant, sun-drenched street as if scanning a memory file. "I can't feel love, hatred, affection—they're just words to me."
"Ouch. You're still a virgin!" she exclaimed, making it sound like a felony. Thomas didn't react; the comment slid off him like rain off a window. He simply kept his eyes on the world around him.
He had always lived this way—untethered. He only sought help when his rage became uncontrollable.
On one occasion, he had come dangerously close to killing a suspect during an interrogation. His therapists believed his trauma had left a deep-seated hunger for vengeance in his soul, one that had subconsciously driven him toward his profession.
His "broken marble," as he often called his mind, wasn't entirely a curse. It provided a clinical clarity that few others possessed.
He could see through deception, link disparate pieces of evidence, and arrive at a brilliant conclusion while others were still drowning in their own biases.
He had an essentially untouchable career record. But in terms of a personal life… he had scored a resounding zero.
"I feel sad for you," the old lady said, but the sentiment didn't move him.
Thomas remained distracted by the sights. Since that day in Africa, he had looked at the world as if through a thick, unbreakable sheet of glass.
Other people lived lives that were vibrant and chaotic—lives totally different from his own. He knew he wasn't "normal," and part of him was curious about what he was missing.
He watched the people on Wall Street—laughing, crying, shouting in disdain—with the same detached fascination a scientist might use to study a specimen under a microscope.
It was the only case he had ever failed to solve.
"I told you already, nothing has ever worked," Thomas said, his gaze remaining fixed on the river of people flowing past them. He didn't even turn to look at her.
"Besides, what's the point? I'm already dying. And the best part is, I'm doing it without feeling a thing. My doctors told me I'm the luckiest patient they've ever seen. I'll go out in top shape and seemingly perfect health, as if my heart simply decided to stop beating. No fatigue, no agony. Just an exit."
"My fees aren't that high to begin with," the old lady replied, appearing not to have heard a single word of his protest.
She leaned in slightly. "I am paid one hundred dollars for my treatment. What do you think, Thomas? Do you want my services?"
Her persistence finally managed to snag his attention. He turned his head, his dark, abyssal eyes meeting her pale blue ones.
"Come now," he urged, a knowing glint in his eyes. "I can tell when someone is lying from a kilometre away."
"And? Do you think I'm lying?" The lady asked.
The two of them sat in silence for a long minute, the roar of Wall Street fading into a dull hum in the background. "You do realise," Thomas said quietly, "that you are the person I've spoken with the longest? Aside from my therapists, my suspects, and the people I used to work for?"
"Is that a 'yes' then?" She extended her gnarled hand, palm up. "Pay me one hundred dollars and the treatment begins."
Thomas studied her. He wasn't exaggerating about his ability to detect a lie; it was the sharpest tool in his arsenal, the trait that had made him a military legend.
He searched her face for a twitch, a shift in her pulse, a flicker of greed. He found nothing. She truly believed she could help him.
"Interesting." He didn't answer her directly. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal suit and pulled out a wallet of fine black leather. It was slim, yet packed with a collection of plastic cards.
He began to pull them out, one by one, laying them on the pavement like a gambler's winning hand.
"This is everything I have," he said, pointing to the nine cards. "The security code for all of them is the same: four nines. Take them. Let's ensure at least one of us ends this night satisfied."
The old lady stared at the cards. She had expected doubt, perhaps a bit of cynical bargaining, or a flat refusal. She hadn't expected a man to hand over his entire life's wealth with a shrug. "This…" she whispered, her eyes wide. "Why?"
"I'm a man who is supposed to die tonight," Thomas said, shrugging. "I have no heirs, no family, and no friends. I told you—you might end up being a very fortunate lady by the time the sun goes down."
She didn't touch the cards for a full minute. Thomas watched her, realising she wasn't just shocked; she was calculating something far more complex than money.
"You have overpaid my fees," she said finally, her voice shifting into a richer, deeper tone. "It is only fair that I provide a few extra gifts for your upcoming trip."
She paused, her eyes drifting to the wooden box. "Tell me, which of these items will you take with you on a journey?"
"Is this part of the treatment?" He allowed a faint, practised smile to touch his lips. He felt nothing, of course, but he had spent years learning how to use his facial muscles to mimic human emotion.
"Consider it that way. Which one do you choose?"
"Not the box, certainly." Thomas reached out and carefully lifted the Bonsai tree from its place. The trunk was thick and gnarled, etched with rough ridges and deep lines that spoke of a long, difficult growth. Its crown was shaped like a strange, elegant hook, adorned with tiny, vibrant green leaves.
"I got it during a trip to a beautiful place," he said, his voice softening. "I saw myself in it. It looks perfectly normal on the surface, but one little thing missing changed its entire shape."
"It is beautiful," the old lady agreed. "Good. You shall have it with you. And now, let us get you a ticket."
Thomas watched her, a sense of mounting curiosity—his one remaining emotion—stirring in his chest. It seemed as though she were treating this entire cosmic transaction as a whimsical joke.
"Place your hands here," she commanded, raising the glass ball into the air. "One hand on the sphere, the other on your tree pot."
"Alright." Thomas obeyed. He didn't expect a miracle; he simply figured it would be an interesting way to spend his final hours. He wanted one last memory that felt "human" before the cancer took him.
But the moment his skin made contact with the glass, reality fractured.
A flash of light erupted from the sphere—a white, blinding brilliance that swallowed the grey buildings of New York.
In the heart of that radiance, he saw the old lady's shadow move. He felt her arms wrap around him in a sudden, maternal hug. Then, he felt the impossible: the distinct, warm pressure of her lips kissing his left cheek.
"One wish is granted. By the law of generosity, your selection shall accompany you. A token of appreciation is given..."
A voice thundered through the void—not a human voice, but something ancient and alien, like the sound of grinding stars. It echoed like a secret prayer through the white light.
The brightness intensified until Thomas could no longer see his own hands. Then, slowly, the light began to bleed away. The world rushed back in, but the sidewalk was gone. The suits were gone. The nothingness was gone.
"Ouch! It hurts!"