The prologue. Marcel Lemaire: The merchant of other people's destinies.

To say that someone knew Marcel Lemaire would be a lie. His name was not listed in the registers, no one remembered when he appeared in the city. He just was. Like an old bridge, like a random breeze in the silence. His shop, hidden in an alley where the phone doesn't pick up, and the lights are dim, like in an old photo, has a simple name.: "Marcel's Shop." Marcel did not advertise his products. He wasn't trying to sell anything. And he never mentioned the price, although they always paid. Sometimes with money. Sometimes it takes time. Sometimes with memories. He was a tall, skinny old man with a gait that had no age. His hair was silver, but not gray. Rather, they glowed like frost on glass. He didn't talk much, and when he did, it felt like his voice wasn't in the room, but inside you. And the main thing is his eyes. Amber, dull, like a predator that has long lost interest in hunting, but never in observation. There were rumors that the shop did not always appear. Someone said they came to her and couldn't find her. Others claimed that they did not enter through the door, but rather "fell through" it by simply turning the corner. Some claimed to have seen her in other cities. In other countries. With the same name. With the same old man. Marcel has never denied or confirmed. He was just watching. And if a person was really looking for something – not an object, but a lost part of himself – he would raise his finger, go deep into the shelves and bring the thing. The most ordinary one. Sometimes it's a cracked mirror. Sometimes a porcelain doll. Sometimes it's the key. Or a clock that goes backwards. "That's not what you want," he said. – This is what awaits you. People asked, "What do I need this for?" – Are you sure you want to know? – He replied. After the purchase, changes took place in the buyer's life. Someone was returning the love. Someone was leaving forever. Someone woke up and started crying. One day, a man who bought his long-dead wife's hairpin from Marcel disappeared three days later. He was found in another city, where he began his life anew, as if the previous one had been crossed out. But Marcel himself… seemed untouchable. Neither age, nor time, nor death touched him. There were legends: he was an apothecary in the 18th century. A magician in a cabaret. The keeper of the clocks that only went in the opposite direction. People asked him who he was, and he smiled sometimes.: "Me?" I'm just someone who remembers what was forgotten. Sometimes he disappeared for weeks. He left a sign: "Closed for the past." Sometimes, when customers returned, they found a shop with a different facade and different lighting, as if it reflected their inner state. Time passed differently in his presence. Some claimed that they had been inside for 10 minutes, and hours had passed outside. Others say the opposite. Marcel never asked why they were here. He knew. Sometimes he looked at a person and nodded, as if there were flashes of someone else's life in his eyes. In those moments, he wasn't just an old man. He was… a witness. Not a judge. Not an adviser. Witness the intersections of destinies and the things through which these destinies could be rewritten. The main rule of the "Marcel's Shop" is that each item can only be sold once. And you can't return it. Who is he? Where do the items come from? Why do they work? There are no answers. Just stories. And it all starts with a bell above the door. A call that you only hear once.

Chapter I. A mirror that does not reflect Nicole didn't come for a thing–she was just walking home with another door. From work, as always. Tired, but collected. Gray trousers, dark raincoat, hair tied up in a bun. Everything screamed at her: "I know who I am." But inside, under the clothes and roles, there is silence. It's like in an apartment where the lights haven't been turned on for a long time. She noticed the shop by accident. On the corner where there used to be a baker. The worn signboard: "Marcel's Shop", a showcase without ads, glass with a slight distortion, like in old mirrors. And the faint ringing of a bell, as if not from her movement, but from someone else's permission. The interior smelled of old wood and time. Shelves filled with strange things: caskets, books, lanterns. No prices, no music. Just the ticking. And the look. He sat in the depths, almost merging into the twilight. Tall, thin, with silver hair and amber eyes like dusty stones. He didn't say, "Hello." He didn't ask, "How can I help you?" He just stared. Nicole felt strange. It was as if they were already waiting for her. –I'm… just looking,– she said, smiling awkwardly. Marcel nodded slowly, not looking away. "Sometimes it's the only way to see," he said. She walked around a couple of shelves, not knowing why she stayed. His hand reached for the object of its own accord–an old round mirror with a worn copper frame. It was opaque, misted up from the inside. She ran her finger along the glass. And the mirror… reflected nothing. Not her face, not her hand. Only a dim depth, where silhouettes seemed to float. "It doesn't show your appearance," Marsel's voice came from behind her. – It shows something that you have not wanted to see for a long time. –Is it… ruined?" Nicole asked, but her voice was shaking. – Or you've ruined yourself by trying to be right. The words stung. Too accurate. She wanted to leave, put the mirror back on the shelf, but she couldn't. It held her gaze, as if someone was whispering in it from afar. "I wasn't going to buy anything," she almost defended herself. "It's not for sale," Marcel said, and something like a slight grin appeared on his face. "It just chooses. You've been chosen. She paid. I didn't even remember how much. I went out at dusk, with a mirror that doesn't reflect. At first, she just kept it in a drawer. But at night, when I woke up from anxiety – for no reason, as it often happened in recent months – I got annoyed. Looked. There was no face in it. But there were shadows. Similar to her, but different. The way she used to laugh. How she sang on stage at the university. How I drew – a long time ago, before law, before a career, before endless alignment. Then the mirror began to change. Not literally– but by feeling. She began to see herself. Without makeup. Without a mask. Without tension in his eyes. And there was pain in that reflection, but also relief. It was as if her inner voice, driven deep, had found a way out. She started to change. At first, it was almost imperceptible. She began to speak more slowly. I've given up on two extra projects. She stopped wearing things she was uncomfortable in. One day I came to work and suddenly said: "I'm leaving." The boss did not immediately understand. "I'm leaving." I'm going to teach. In another city. Painting. "Are you… an artist?" "What is it?" he asked in amazement. Nicole didn't answer. She wasn't sure yet. But the mirror no longer showed shadows. It was her face. Calm. And finally, the living. Six months later, she returned to the alley. I wanted to thank you. Bring the mirror back. But there was no shop. In its place is an empty facade. Tablet: "Marcel's shop. It's closed to someone else's future." She smiled. And, turning around, she left. There's a mirror in her pocket. Now it reflected everything. Even the things she was no longer ashamed of.

Chapter II. The music box that knows your dreams Sometimes people don't come to Marcel's Shop to buy things. Sometimes for forgiveness. But they say it differently. Laura was a frail woman in her forties, with her hands always clenched into fists, as if hiding everything she didn't say in them. She went into the shop, as if apologizing to the world – quietly, with downcast eyes. Her face resembled a city in the fog: you could guess the lines, but not the feelings. "I'm looking for… something." For my daughter," she said uncertainly. Marcel looked at her with a look that needed no explanation. And he went deeper into the shop. He knew. She waited among the objects, each of which seemed to be watching her: books with empty spines, a glass bird without pupils, an hourglass in which the sand was falling upwards. He returned with a small music box. The black tree. A worn lid with a faded flower. "She doesn't play by tapping,– he said. – Only when the person is ready to hear. – And the music?.. Laura ran her fingers over the lid. – Music comes from dreams. The kind that we forgot. Or we don't want to remember. "Is that a toy?" – A thing. He wasn't smiling. – But if you're looking for a toy, it's not here. She bought it. Not because I wanted to, but because I was afraid to leave empty–handed. Her daughter hadn't spoken to her for a long time. After my father's death, everything collapsed. A teenage girl, silent and prickly, looked at her mother as if she had betrayed everyone. And Laura? She was just trying to survive. Replace love with control. Substitute a conversation with a schedule. For the first week, the box was on the windowsill. Laura didn't dare open it, and she wouldn't let her daughter. As if she was afraid that the music would be a trial. Or he'll start playing… not about her. One night, she woke up to a sound. A subtle, almost childish motif was pouring from somewhere in the kitchen. The melody was unfamiliar, but there was something scratching in her chest. Laura went out barefoot, and saw her daughter sitting at the table, in front of the box, with her eyes closed. The music stopped when Laura entered. "What was that?" "What is it?" she whispered. – Dad. – The girl did not open her eyes. "I dreamed about Dad." How he laughs. How he carries me on his shoulders in the garden. I had completely forgotten that. Laura sat down next to him. And for the first time in months, they were just silent. Together. Not as enemies, but as two lost souls who have found one window in the dark. The box didn't play every night. But when I played, I had dreams. Laura dreamed of her youth, forgotten evenings in the park, and her first trip to the seaside with her husband. The daughter began to talk, not about pain, but about memories. And in these conversations, they became a family again. Then the box fell silent. Forever. I just stopped reacting one day. As if everything necessary had already been said. Or heard it. They tried to open the mechanism, but found nothing. Only the phrase engraved on the inner wall: "Music is the memory of the heart. Even if the mind wants to forget." A couple of months later, Laura returned to the alley. But there was no shop. In its place is a brick wall. As if she had never existed. She smiled. And she turned around. In the reflection of the window, where the entrance to the "Marcel's Shop" used to be, she saw herself. Not a woman with fists. And a woman with her palms open. Ready to hold – and let go.

Chapter III. The clock that goes backwards When the door of Marcel's Shop opened, a man with the face of a man who has already lost everything appeared in the doorway. And yet he came in. His name was Victor. Fifty three. The successful one is in the past. He used to be the owner of two restaurants, but now he's a useless consultant, divorced, estranged from his son and himself. The face wasn't tired, it was… empty. It was as if no one had lived in it for a long time. Just a function. He looked around the shop: dusty clocks, shelves, lamps with warm light. Something in this place breathed differently. Not modern, but not ancient either. Forever. "I'm looking for a present,– he said almost mechanically. Marcel, as usual, did not respond immediately. He was standing at the far wall, leaning on a wooden ladder, from which he seemed to be watching people without even turning around. "To whom?" "What is it?" he asked, without changing his position. –For myself,– Victor said after a pause. Marcel nodded briefly, as if something had been confirmed. Then he took a pocket watch from the shelf. The glass is cloudy, the body is brass. The dial is reversed. The numbers went from right to left. The arrows are backwards. "This watch doesn't measure time,– he said. "They're bringing him back." But not how you think. Victor laughed dryly. – If they can erase mistakes, I'll take it. "They don't do laundry." They show exactly when you decided that life was over. Victor didn't wear watches because he believed in them. He just didn't want to throw it away – he paid, as it seemed to him, a lot. But from the very first day, the clock began to strangely "interfere". He woke up at 7:30, and the clock showed 3:14. He left work at 18:00 – the clock went to 10 in the morning. He began to notice that the moments when he managed to laugh, the clock accelerated. When he returned to the usual bitterness, they pulled back. One day he got stuck on one number – 12:06. The clock stopped. Neither here nor there. For several days in a row. He hardly slept, he kept looking at them. And finally, one morning, when I couldn't stand it, I went to the old apartment where the family used to live. There was still a nail hanging crookedly on the wall. There is a white spot under it. There used to be a picture there that he took after the divorce. The photo showed his wife, his son, and himself, laughing as if he didn't know that in a year he would lose them both–not by death, but by indifference. The clock in his hand ticked. Back. Until 11:58. He began to return there every day. Not to believe, but to remember that he wasn't fighting back then. I just accepted it. As with a change in the weather. And he allowed himself to disappear from the lives of his neighbors. Not by one act, but by a series of procrastinations, missed words, and refusals to have honest conversations. And now the clock was taking him back not to the past, but to the cause. The hands were unwinding not the chronology, but the moment when he decided to be unhappy. He began to notice something else: in the morning, when he called his son, the arrows were moving forward. When I was just working, we stood there. When I started to judge myself, they were unwound. And one evening, when he found an old video with his son on his phone, edited a short clip and sent it to him with the caption "I still remember how to be with you," the clock showed 00:00 for the first time. Zero. Not the end. Beginning. He came back a month later. I wanted to return the watch, but the shop had disappeared. In its place is wet asphalt, not a single sign. He stood in the rain, with his watch in his hand, and stared into the void as if into a mirror. Then he laughed. And he went. The clock was going backwards. But now it's not about the past. To the point where he became himself again.