The shopkeeper handed Marek the pipe like one hands over a very polite but loaded crossbow.

“Just a reminder,” the man said, expression flat, voice dry, “this is a cursed shop. It’s normal for the items to come back. Good quality. Good stats. Terrible long-term results.”

Marek nodded. “Right. Rent the egg, return the chicken.”

“Yes, maybe like that.”

Oswald eyed the pipe warily. “You’re sure about this?”

“No,” Marek said, lighting it. The taste hit immediately—something smoky with a hint of cinnamon. “But it’s the best i can afford.”

Six months passed.

Marek welded. Day in, day out. It wasn’t happiness, but it was close enough that he stopped caring about the difference.

He drank—morning, sometimes afternoon, definitely evening. He smoked the cursed pipe. Every day the taste changed. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes bitter. Once it tasted like fresh tomato soup and he nearly cried.

No one asked questions.

He made just enough money to keep going. Never more. He didn’t trust savings. His brother-in-law once saved too much, got mugged, and was found floating downstream with empty pockets and a surprised expression. Marek learned the lesson: spend it before the world does.

One evening, as the forge cooled and Marek cleaned his hands on a rag that was once a nice towel from some famous place, Oswald met Marek at the Tavern and sit into the seat across.

Marek lit the pipe. It tasted like mint and regret. He liked it.

Oswald leaned in, casual as always. “A friend of mine misplaced something important. An artifact. Old. Curious. Easily offended.”

Marek squinted. "Who is Old Curious and Easily offended?
Oswald replied "My Friend, not you"

Still questioning “But how do you misplace something like that?”

Oswald shrugged. “Delivered to the wrong address. Right time, unfortunately. Wrong person. He moves around a lot, but he’s been spotted not far from here. South of the canal, near the vine quarter.”

Marek took another puff. This time, the pipe tasted like charcoal and cheap coffee.

“So we’re just asking nicely?” he asked.

“Preferably. It’s not dangerous—probably. I wouldn’t bring you if I expected resistance.”

“Because I’m faster than light?”

“Because if there were resistance,” Oswald said, smiling, “you’d still be standing in the doorway wondering what the job was.”

Marek nodded. “I would not be thinking about the job, but i would defnitly be thinking.”

He tapped the pipe gently against the edge of the ash tray. “Alright. Let’s go find your friend’s lost junk.”

Oswald raised his mug. “That’s the spirit.”