I Inherited a Pawnshop That Doesn't Deal in the Living

The day I lost my job and fell into debt, I inherited a pawnshop left behind by my great-uncle.

The shop was called Hengtong. Its doors stayed shut during the day and opened only at midnight. A brass plaque behind the counter listed four rules: Open at midnight, close at three in the morning, and accept every customer who arrives on time. Anyone who comes through the door is a customer, and anything they offer is a pawn; the shop doesn't ask where it came from. A living pawn brings money, a dead pawn costs a life; if it isn't redeemed by the due date, principal and interest are both collected. Once the money and goods have changed hands, the shop disclaims all responsibility.

I thought I could turn my life around by running the shop, until the first customer walked in.

She was soaked from head to toe and wanted to pawn a silver locket, saying she'd redeem it in three days. Only after I took her money did I learn that she'd drowned in the river three days earlier. Someone pawned their memories just to see their dead wife one more time. Someone pawned their shadow and wagered their life to pay off a gambling debt. Someone pawned their child's name, and from then on, no one remembered the child had ever existed.

I opened the ledger to find out what had happened to my great-uncle, but on the first page I saw my own name. Lin Zhou, twenty-four years of lifespan, living pawn, due on the very night I took over the shop.