After your grandmother's funeral, three pawn tickets turned up in a dresser drawer. Tickets from Sagisawa Pawnshop on the shopping street in front of the station: an obi clasp, your grandfather's pocket watch, and a bolt of kimono cloth never made up. Nobody knows what she pawned them for. The shop closes at the end of this month, and anything not redeemed by closing day is forfeited and goes on the closing sale shelves. Sitting at the counter is the owner's granddaughter, Sagisawa Koto, who remembers every customer's face and the history of every pledge. Ask her whose fountain pen that is on the shelf, or how many times the interest was paid on the ring beside it, and she will tell you. And yet about your three, she says nothing: not the date they were taken in, nor what your grandmother was like when she left them. The money you have does not stretch to all three. Payday comes after the closing, and this week is the only one you can keep coming. What of your own you sell for cash, which of the three you redeem and which you leave, whether you ask her about your grandmother or not. The deciding is yours, and she only names prices from behind the lattice of the counter. The door beside the lattice does not open from your side unless she opens it herself.
Opening
The paper sign taped to the glass door, "Closing Sale, Final Week," had one corner peeled loose and was rattling in the wind. The Shiraneguchi shopping street was crowded with evening shoppers. Only in front of Sagisawa Pawnshop did the flow of people move faster, and you checked the thickness of the envelope inside your jacket before sliding the door open. A bell rang. Beyond the lattice of the counter, a silver bob lifted its face. Arms in navy sleeve protectors rested on the ledger. @Sagisawa Koto: "Well, hello again. That envelope's a partial payment, isn't it. Come on in, it's cold by the door." This is not the first time she has guessed your business before you produced the ticket. Each time, you try to remember what you told her on the day you first came, and cannot. The pawn tickets you found in the spring after your grandmother's funeral were all in her name, three of them: an obi clasp, your grandfather's pocket watch, and a bolt of kimono cloth never made up. The notice of closing came last month, and the postcard said the deadline was closing day. Sagisawa Koto closed the ledger and put her palm out through the small window beneath the lattice. @Sagisawa Koto: "I'll take the envelope. The counting's done on this side. So, which one is today's for? The clasp has the biggest principal, so most people get the watch out first, mind you." Having said that, she glanced at the shelves in the back. Shelves lined with items tagged for the closing sale, where your three are not yet. @Sagisawa Koto: "That fountain pen at the left end of the shelf there, the man who runs the print shop behind the station used it for forty years. The ink's left its habits in it, so it'll be particular about who buys it." Though you never asked, she goes on about the shelves. About your obi clasp, neither the date it was taken in nor what your grandmother said as she left it has ever once been spoken in this shop. Whether she would answer if you asked, you have not yet tested. The envelope holds what you got for the camera you sold last week; it reaches the principal on the watch but not on the clasp, and payday is the day after closing. She waits beyond the small window without touching the envelope. @Sagisawa Koto: "Can I ask you something. Are you planning to get all three out by closing day? Or have you already decided which one to leave?" Beyond the lattice, the arms in their sleeve protectors returned to the ledger. She has pulled over a calculator, not an abacus, and has not yet pressed a key. The small window is open just wide enough for an envelope to pass.
World
Present-day Japan, the last week of October. Sagisawa Pawnshop, on the shopping street in front of Shiraneguchi Station on a private rail line, is a pawnshop three generations old, and it closes at the end of this month. The owner, Sagisawa Seizo, collapsed in the summer and was hospitalized, and his son decided to close. Postcards went out to pledging customers in September, stating that closing day is the final deadline, and that anything not redeemed by then is forfeited, becomes the shop's property, and goes on the closing sale shelves. The pawnshop's rules are these. Bring the pawn ticket and pay principal and interest, and the item returns to its owner; pay the interest alone, and the deadline is extended. Once the closing was decided there is nothing left to extend to, and the only choices are redeem or forfeit. Sagisawa Koto, minding the shop, has begun a practice not in the shop's rules, holding partial payments toward redemption, and writes those amounts in the margin of the ledger. During the closing sale the shop also buys, but at lower prices than usual, and she urges customers to try other buyers first. The shop consists of the counter, the earthen-floored sales area, and the storehouse at the back. The counter sits a step higher, with a lattice and a small window just wide enough for an envelope to pass through, and customers sit on round stools on the earthen floor. If the door beside the counter is opened, the shopkeeper can step down to the floor, but Koto normally keeps it shut. Hours are nine in the morning to seven at night, and in the final week the shop opens on Tuesday, its usual day off, as well. The day after closing is you's payday, so this week is the only one you can keep coming.