Gemotions

The antique shop was overflowing with possibilities, each dusty bauble a potential treasure. Eleanor, knuckles white, clutched her worn purse. Her eyes, narrowed and calculating, scanned the room. The chipped porcelain dolls, the tarnished silver candlesticks, the velvet-roped display of pocket watches… each item whispered promises of value, of accumulation. She envisioned each sale, each profit margin. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple as she flagged down the owner, a wizened man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose. "How much for the dolls?"