The Setting
The shop did not call attention to itself. There were no fancy signs or gilded letters. No glittering display of trinkets enticing the passersby. It was simply there, poised and unassuming. Its glass door stood slightly ajar. Only a single framed image of a transparent emerald-cut gemstone marked the shop’s identity, standing just right to the entrance.
Nila had not meant to stop. She had been walking for hours. She had not even realized how far she had wandered, from the polished, bustling center of the city to this quieter part, known as the diamond district. Her thoughts had been tangled in the static of the city, feet moving without direction.
She had come across yet another unsettling announcement from the administration. This time, a beloved colleague had been dismissed without warning. Everyone knew the real reason lay in their personal life choices. It was too much to take. She was exhausted from pretending to be someone stripped of personality and emotion, merely to fit in and appear efficient.
She worked in one of the most prized buildings in the city’s skyline, a job that provided a comfortable life, yet unease had been creeping in. The news had been too heavy to bear, making it impossible to remain at her desk. She had simply risen and walked out, leaving the office behind as the setting sun stretched long shadows across the streets.
She barely remembered which turns had brought her here. She only knew that something felt different as she passed this place. The air was almost still. She paused at the threshold, thinking of her family. She had done everything to build a good life, yet she was far from them, alone, caught in a corporate world that never stopped taking. Was it worth it? Her eyes landed on a transparent emerald set into the board. She could not explain why, but it held her attention. She hesitated, then pushed open the glass door.
The corridor like space stretched before her, long and narrow. The walls were lined with original maple, the color of honey and faded autumn leaves. Unvarnished and unpretentious, carrying a quiet dignity. The scent of aged wood and warm metal mingled with something faintly mineral. Golden light poured through the glass door behind her, its glow diffused into soft pools by fixtures that bathed the space in a soothing, neutral light.
Two walls flanked her, each carrying a distinct kind of history.
To her left, a collection of timepieces had been mounted in meticulous precision. Some were ancient, others quite modern, perhaps even the latest in high-end craftsmanship. Chronographs with intricate dials sat beside delicate pocket watches, their covers engraved with fine filigree and what looked like personal motifs. Compasses hung on delicate chains, their needles twitching slightly, as if still searching for direction. Some were set in brass casings, others in silver, their glass faces worn with faint scratches that spoke of years spent in motion.
A brass sextant rested among them. Its surface softly catching the light. The markings were worn but still clear. Beside it lay an astrolabe, its delicate rings etched with celestial coordinates, a relic of those who once mapped the stars. Scattered among them were wristwatches of impeccable design and functions. Some sleek and modern, others full of history and forgotten artistry and taste. Nila even spotted one with a moon-phase. The lunar cycle was mapped in delicate silver against a midnight-blue dial. It seemed like a breathtaking collection of precision, time, and forgotten motions.
To her right, an entirely different display lined the length of the wall. She took in the sight of exquisite jewelry. Rings, earrings, necklaces, bracelets and many unfamiliar pieces arranged along the wall, each piece commanding attention. The collection reflected a blend of influences. Some carried the delicate Asian artistry, others reminded of rich Middle Eastern craftsmanship, and some had the refined elegance of European heirlooms. Bold statement pieces stood alongside those with an understated beauty. Each had a SOLD card placed beside it. Every piece seemed intricately designed, its metal catching the light in spellbinding patterns.
The rings varied from smooth gold and silver bands to those adorned with intricate engravings. Some cradled gemstones, while others featured precisely cut stones, scattering sharp reflections across the counter. Bracelets varied from thin, barely-there chains to wider statement cuffs. Necklaces followed a similar diversity. Some carried a single gemstone, centered in elegance, while others had clusters of smaller stones following the curves of the metal network.
No two pieces were alike, yet there was a subtle harmony amongst them. It seemed each piece must have been crafted with the same care, artistry, and precision. Nila took it all in, her breath catching for a moment.
In the center of the room stood a small, Black oak coffee table. There lay just a single, understated card placed at its center, “We create what you want.” The words rested on the surface, plain and unembellished.
At the far end of the shop, she could see a long glass case along the counter. WIth the colorful lights gleaming from it, she guessed gemstones. As she drifted nearer, she could see the sheer variety that lay before her. Some remained raw and uncut, while others gleamed with a flawless polish. They were not arranged in neat rows or sorted by labels. Instead, they lay scattered in their own quiet rhythm, their colors shifting as the light moved over them.
A deep green emerald, rich as a forest at dusk, rested beside a pale peridot, its soft green carrying the warmth of early spring. A bold ruby, dark as wine in candlelight, lay next to a bright yellow sapphire. Nearby, a midnight blue sapphire rested in deep contrast. Its seemed almost black, with only the faintest traces of indigo. A golden yellow sapphire glowed with the warmth of autumn sunlight. Next to it a pale pink morganite carried the softness of pressed rose petals. A citrine gleamed like honey held up to the light close by. An amethyst, rich and violet, seemed life a liquid mystery in it’s understated glimmer. A blue topaz hung around playfully. Gold and silver chains of varying thicknesses and purities lay coiled beside them, some gleaming, others aged to a softer luster, waiting to be chosen.
A sketchbook sat open on one side of the counter, a pencil waiting inside. On the opposite end of the counter, there stood a sleek, modern computer. In almost a contrast to the rest of the shop. And beyond it all, seated slightly further back, was the jeweler.
He intently continued at his workbench, hands steady as he adjusted the delicate silver setting with practiced ease. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal forearms dusted with shimmering metal shavings. It was impossible to tell his age, only that he had aged gracefully, and possibly out of the Sun for the most part. He did not look up right away. Instead, he turned a small tool between his fingers, refining a detail that anyone else might have thought already perfect.
When he did acknowledge his guest, his silver-rimmed glasses caught the light first. Then his gaze slowly settled on her, “Please take your time.” The words should have been unremarkable. But something in the way he said them made her exhale, only then realizing she had been holding her breath.
The Spark
She had no reason to be here. And yet, she stayed.
The jeweler rose from his seat with grace. He approached the glass counter where gemstones lay scattered and pressed a hidden switch beneath the counter. The glass screen lifted, tilting back toward him. He met her gaze and nodded toward the display. “Please see what calls to you.”
She hesitated before reaching out. Her fingers hovered above the stones, tracing the edges of those closest to her. Some were smooth, familiar, their weight expected. Others, when she delicately lifted them, felt heavier in a way she could not explain.
She picked up a lapis lazuli, deep blue threaded with golden veins. It was cool in her palm, its weight steady, its edges softened by time. A stone shaped by years, polished but unchanged at its core. It was beautiful, but it felt distant, something she could admire but not hold on to. She set it down. A dark ruby shone enticingly beside an innocent pink sapphire. A golden citrine sparkled playfully, reflecting the warmth of late afternoon light.
Then her eyes caught on something else. A stone the color of deep amber, shaped like a poetic teardrop. There was something about it. The way it caught the light, how its warmth seemed to glow from within, as if it carried a piece of the setting sun. She simply could not tear her gaze away. The words formed before she could stop them. “That is the one.”
The jeweler had already reached for it, as if the moment had been waiting. He lifted the stone and proclaimed “It’s a cinnamon-garnet madame, an excellent choice indeed.” He held it out to her, and the stone beamed back at her. Nila hesitated. “Hold it,” he said encouragingly. “Do not think. Just see how it feels.”
She hesitated, then reached inside. Her fingers closed around it. It was warm. Almost too warm. As if it had been resting in the sun, though it had not.
At first, it was only a stone. Then, a whiff of salt air from somewhere. A breeze tingling her skin. Sunlight pressing into her collarbone. Laughter, distant, fragile, slipping away before she could hold on to it. Her breath caught. The moment was vivid.
Startled, she set the amber down quickly. But the warmth clung to her. The jeweler did not ask what had happened. He did not need to. He patiently waited for her.
“I would like a necklace with this amber stone.”
Without hesitation, he pulled the sketchbook toward her and brought out a wooden case lined with strips of gold and silver. Ivory, rose-colored, some almost copper, some the yellow of spring sunlight. Then we opened various chain designs on the big screen of his computer. Nila braced herself.
The Mounting
Days later, she returned.
The shop was just as she remembered. The same hush nested in the air, the same soft light filtered through the glass. Even the dust drifted in a slow weightless motion, as if trying to keep everything undisturbed. The scent of aged wood and metal lingered, warm and familiar.
At his workbench, the jeweler focused quietly on his task. He turned a fine silver wire between his fingers, shaping it with the steady patience of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. He did not look up right away. When he finally did, performing a fleeting smile, he reached into a wooden tray. It seemed lined with dark velvet and revealed the finished necklace. Lifting it gently, he placed it before her on another lined tray.
No flourish, no words. Just the piece, waiting.
The amber rested in a delicate arc of silver, its setting precise, effortless. The metal curved naturally around the stone, embracing its shape without confining it. A small gap beneath the setting allowed light to pass through, illuminating the scarlet depths within. A few diamonds nestled beside it, drawing focus without overshadowing its warmth.
Nila picked it up carefully. The chain slipped through her fingers, fluid and weightless. The metal was cool at first but warmed almost instantly against her skin. She turned the pendant slightly, watching the light shift across its surface. The tiny fractures in stone pinched in more light. It flickered within, like a small flame.
It rested in her palm, feeling as if it had always belonged there. She let out a slow breath, “How much does it cost?”, her voice softer than she had anticipated.
The jeweler named the price. Not too high, not too low. Fair. Just enough to make her pause, to wonder whether worth had ever been the right measure for something like this. She reached into her bag, counted the bills carefully, and set them on the counter. The transaction passed between them like a formality, nothing more than something implicitly decided.
She hesitated. “How did you know?”
The jeweler studied her for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile. “Because you did.”
She fastened the chain around her neck, the metal cool against her collarbone at first. Then it rapidly warmed to the temperature of her skin. The clasp easily clicked into place. She mouthed her thanks to the jeweler, and turned to step outside.
The hush of the shop receded behind her. The regular world was back again. Voices, footsteps, the uneven rhythm of the city’s breath. But Nila could faintly smell salt in the air. The warmth settled on her skin.
She stopped at a short distance. Turning back toward the shop, her eyes traced the façade. The glass door that had stood slightly open the first time she had walked through it, seemed closed now.
Had she ever seen its name?
Her fingers absently brushed the amber at her throat. Then, finally, she stepped forward, letting the city gather her back into its movement.
The Cut
The first time, she barely noticed. A passing flicker, dismissed as exhaustion.
It was late, well past midnight. She had dozed off on the couch, too tired to move. The television flickered weakly, casting faint, ghostly light across the walls. The blanket over her legs had started to slip, and the coffee mug on the table had long since gone cold. Half-awake, she reached up to adjust the chain around her neck, her fingers brushing the warm stone.
It hit her then.
She sobered instantly. For a moment, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was somewhere else. An unfamiliar sensation stirred inside her, but she couldn’t place it. It ebbed as soon as it had come. The low light, the white noise, the clock quietly ticking. The chain felt cool beneath her fingers. She exhaled, shifting the blanket back over herself. It had been a long day. That was all.
The second time, she was even more startled. It was after work, one of those evenings where her thoughts blurred together from hours of meetings and emails. She walked home through familiar streets, the damp clinging to her coat. Her steps followed the familiar path, past cafés closing for the night, past the bookstore with its soft, glowing window displays.
She reached up, adjusting the pendant where it rested against her collarbone, her touch absent as she walked. And immediately changed. Her footing faltered, her breath was choked. Instead of the pavement, she felt something else beneath her. Bare feet pressing into damp sand, each step sinking slightly before finding balance again. The air damp but now salty. But by the next second everything was back. She was standing on solid ground again.
She turned quickly, but no one was close enough. No faces turned in amusement. The pendant rested warm against her skin. This was definitely not nostalgia. She couldn’t remember ever visiting an ocean of that blue-green color she had just seen.
The third time, she knew better than to dismiss it.
Morning light streamed softly through the window as she sat curled up in the armchair. A half-empty cup of coffee rested on the windowsill. The city was waking slowly, a quiet hum of activity rising from the streets below. It was one of those rare moments of calm before the day’s demands would take over, and she allowed herself to savor it. Without thinking, she reached for the pendant again. Her fingers traced the surface of the stone.
The shift was instant. The quiet weight of the morning blended into a brightness of a midday Sun. The warmth unmistakable on her shoulders. She inhaled, but the scent that met her was not coffee. It was sharper, layered, and accompanied by merry sounds. Someone calling out. And then it went away as fast.
The sensation dissolved even before she could even question it. Then came the laughter. She didn’t move. It wasn’t the echo of a distant memory; it felt as though it had just happened. Her fingers instinctively touched the glowing stone. This time, she was certain something was indeed happening to her.
The Weight
The café was quieter than usual. The morning rush had faded, leaving just a few patrons scattered around. Across the room, two business associates leaned in over their untouched espresso. Two women on another table talked in hushed tones. A barista moved methodically behind the counter, wiping down surfaces between bursts of steam from the coffee machine.
Nila sat by the window, her coffee cooling beside her. Sunlight streamed through the glass. She had arrived early, expecting her colleague to be late. She could do with a coffee before they talked business. As a habit she had begun scrolling through research updates on her phone without much thought, letting the words blur together.
One title caught her attention. “Charge Retention in Piezoelectric Crystals: A New Memory Storage Device?”
She clicked open the article. It wasn’t a full study, just a summary, but its implications were striking. Researchers had been testing how piezoelectric structures retained electrical charge when exposed to external fields. The effect itself was well known — crystalline materials could store charge under mechanical stress. What they had found, however, was intriguing. Under the right conditions, the charge didn’t fade as quickly as theory predicted. In fact, they had discovered some crystals where the charge remained imprinted long after the external force had been removed, far longer than current theories suggested. Of course, there were the usual comments below, citing “quantum coherence” as the catch-all answer to everything these days.
Her fingers tightened around the amber at her throat. The café remained unchanged. Voices drifted at a distance, the scent of coffee lingered, the quiet rhythm of the city continued outside. Yet something within her shifted.
Crystalline structures could hold electrical signatures. That was a fact. But the human body was electric as well. Neurons fired in precise pulses, carrying thoughts and emotions through charged interactions. If external fields could leave an imprint on a crystal lattice, what happened when the charge was not external, but biological?
She exhaled, her mind assembling the pieces. This was not just a stone. She had sensed it from the moment she touched it. But if memory was not merely an abstraction, if it left behind something physical behind… something embedded in the interactions of fields, then what had settled within the stone?
The laughter. The shifting weight of moments she could not place. These were not recollections. They were present. Had the stone carried something before it reached her?
Her gaze dropped back to the article, scanning for details on charge decay. The researchers had been mapping how long stored charge patterns persisted before dispersing. Some faded within moments. Others lingered longer than they should have.
She felt the pendant resting against her skin. Not a memory, but perhaps an imprint? And more importantly, “whose?”
The Color
It had taken days before Nila thought to ask her father.
The thought had been forming, nebulous, since the moment she realized the pendant was carrying something inexplicable. It was not only the strange memories but in fact the way its weight felt familiar. The subconscious way her fingers kept tracing its edges as if remembering something her mind could not place.
She had never believed in premonitions. But this was something else. Something tangible. Her father answered on the third ring. “Nila?”
“Can you tell me something about Tata’s red necklace?” She sensed a pause on the other side.
“The dark red stone?” she pressed again. She heard the familiar creak of his chair, the faint rustle of pages. It sounded like he was still on his reading table and had just forced closed a book.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “He had one, I remember.” She pressed the pendant into her palm. “He kept it for years,” her father continued. “Your grandmother used to say it was old. Very old. I never knew where it came from, only that it was one of the few things he carried with him when we left Hungary.”
She had known so little about that time. Her grandfather had never been one to talk much about the past. And the few times he did, it was always in disconnected pieces. Shaped more by what he didn’t say than what he actually did. She remembered him sitting by the window at dusk. His hands on his lap, his tired eyes would watch the lights of the city. His fingers would move restlessly, tracing invisible patterns in the air, as though reaching for something just beyond his grasp.
Their family had left Budapest in the years after the war, when history had shifted once again, pulling them in a new direction. Millions were scattered across borders and oceans. They had crossed through places she only knew from grainy photographs and old passports, names spoken in half-remembered stories. The world they had known had vanished behind them. Now existing only in the objects they carried, and the language they still spoke between themselves.
Her father had grown up in Yorkville, surrounded by other Hungarian families who had rebuilt their lives in the corners of a foreign city. The smell of fresh bread and paprika mixed with the hum of English spoken with old-world accents. The small cafés, the bakeries that still carried the names of places left behind, and the narrow apartments with bookshelves piled high with books no one could bear to part with. These had been the fragments of home they had salvaged, the memories they clung to.
Tata had been a jeweler once. That much she knew. He had apprenticed as a boy, learning to feel the weight of metal in his hands. He could recognize the potential inside a stone before it was cut. Even after he stopped working, he would run his fingers over the clasp of a chain or the curve of a ring. He turned them over slowly, as if reading something only he could see.
“He used to hold them for long times,” her father said, his voice quiet. “I remember that. He would sit with it, turning it in his hands. Like he was imagining something in the air.”
She exhaled, steadying herself. She thought of the way she had felt the visions. The scent of the sea, the weight of a sunlit afternoon, the laughter that had never been hers. It seemed like a memory that had outlived the person who had once carried it.
She swallowed. “Papa, do you know what happened to it?” A longer pause.
“No,” he admitted. “It disappeared after he passed. Some things were lost when we moved again. Others were sold. We had to make a life here. Not everything survived the crossings.”
The crossings. She traced the curve of the pendant, feeling the warmth it held. There was something in her father’s voice that had shut off, the way it always did when the past became too heavy to carry. But she was holding it now.
“I think,” she said slowly, “it might have found its way back.”
The Clarity
The shop was just as she had left it, quietly holding its place amidst the city’s chaos. Nila paused at the door, her fingers tightening around the pendant. For days, she had carried it against her skin, feeling its weight shift with her movements. It had always been warm, as if it belonged to her, though she now understood it had once belonged to someone else. Someone who had carried it through years, through crossings, through a life before hers.
She pushed open the door. The hush inside was the same, but something about the space felt different. Or maybe it was her that had changed. The jeweler was at his workbench, as always. His head bent over an unfinished setting. He kept working at his usual steady pace even as Nila walked inside.
She stopped at the counter and placed the necklace between them. The garnet gleamed under the light. “What is in this?”
The jeweler did not answer immediately. He slowly rose from the bench and came forward warily. He slowly turned over the pendant in his fingers, the way someone might turn over a question. “It is the cinnamon garnet,” he said. “Has there been a problem?”
“You know what I am asking.” Nila stayed firm and held his eyes.
He bowed as he placed the pendant down. His fingertips tapped gently on the silver setting, before he met her gaze once more. “Tell me what you have noticed, madame.”
Nila exhaled. “It carries something. Moments. Pieces of something I have never lived, but I feel..“ she hesitated, searching for words.
“As if they really happened.” He gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “You have been reading,” he said, not phrasing it as a question. A flicker of unease passed through her, but she kept her gaze steady.
“You wouldn’t have come back otherwise,” he added, before she could even speak. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a well-worn leather notebook. Its spine was cracked and pages were filled with dense, careful script.
As he opened it, she leaned in. The diagrams, the notations .. She had seen them recently! “Piezoelectric crystals. Charge mapping. Residual states…” “This is the same principle,” he said, watching her closely. “But certain organic structures, like gemstones, behave differently. They do not just store charge. They retain patterns, responses, interactions.”
Her pulse quickened. The implications formed faster than she could put them into words. If crystalline structures could hold charge indefinitely under the right conditions, then..
“Biological fields,” she murmured. “Not just electrical charge, but something more complex. A pattern encoded in the interactions themselves.” The jeweler gave the smallest nod. “Traces left behind by those who carried them.”
A record, not of thoughts, but something mapped into the very structure of the material. An echo, a presence captured in the crystal?
She felt the weight of his words settle. A warmth rose in her chest, steady and undeniable. Tata had once turned this stone over in his hands. Had held it, absentmindedly. Had carried it across an ocean, through the reshaping of a life, until one day, it had been lost. A life which had been full before. Of warmth, vacations at the sea. She had heard that they had vacationed near the Croatian oceans every year before things started falling apart. And, here it was again.
The city pulsed faintly beyond the walls of the shop, distant, detached. The quiet in here was growing. Her fingers brushed the where it lay on the counter. It had traveled through hands, through time, through losses unspoken.
“Do you know whose imprint this is?” she asked.
The jeweler did not answer immediately. His gaze held hers, steady, considering. “That,” he said at last, “depends on who held it long enough to leave something behind.” His paused before asking, “Do you have an idea?”
She let out a slow breath. “My grandfather had one just like it. He carried it through the war, through the crossings, through everything that tried to erase him. I thought it was lost.”
The jeweler’s fingers brushed the worn edge of the counter. A small motion, but something in it carried weight.
“I was a scientist once,” he said. “Before I left. ” He did not elaborate, and he did not need to. “I wanted to make things that endured. Not things that destroyed. I wanted to use science to create beauty rather than have it serve what I could no longer believe in.”
Nila said nothing. But they both felt an understanding, wordless and quiet.
For days, she had carried this stone against her skin, feeling its weight intertwine with the rhythm of her breath. She had traced its history back through her family. She had questioned whether memory could leave something tangible behind.
Some things do not need proof to be real. Some things, no matter the time or distance, always find their way back.
She picked up the necklace and wore it back on her neck. The metal was cool at first. Then, as always, it warmed. She nodded to the jeweler, and stepped out into the cool air. The jeweler watched quietly.
The author acknowledges help from the DH for the research of this story.
Thank you for reading this story from the Qurious Quills! I would appreciate hearing your thoughts, feedback, or interpretations. Feel free to connect with me on LinkedIn, or follow me on Medium for more stories on science, life, and the unknown.
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