The manager held the old wristwatch in her hand, staring at it like it wasn’t just an object, but a memory she had tried to forget.
Her fingers trembled.
She grabbed a folded paper from the boy’s backpack and unfolded it quickly.
Her eyes scanned the page.
Then she stopped.
Her face went pale.
Manager (barely audible): “…Your mother is Anna?”
The boy nodded, wiping his tears.
Boy: “Yes… she said if I ever get lost, I should show this to someone important…”
A silence dropped over the entire showroom.
Even the rich customers stopped moving.
The manager stepped back like she had been hit.
Manager: “Anna… you’re her son?”
Her voice cracked on the name.
The wealthy woman lowered her phone slowly, no longer smiling.
The boy looked around, confused.
Boy: “Do you know her?”
The manager didn’t answer immediately. She looked at the broken crystal on the floor, then back at the boy—her expression now a mix of guilt, fear, and shock.
Finally, she spoke:
Manager: “Everyone… stop filming.”
The room stayed frozen.
Because suddenly, this wasn’t about broken crystal anymore.
It was about a name no one in that room expected to hear again.
