There is an alley that only connects on certain nights. On the other side of it is a market, and the market does not take money. It takes years.
The first time, he bought back his brother's watch. The stallholder held out an open palm; he laid his own hand on it; that was the transaction, and it cost a year. The second time it was a letter that had never been sent. Two years.
The third time he walked the whole length of the stalls and found nothing of his, and a seller reached out and put a bronze coin into his hand — square-holed, worn smooth at the rim — and said, in a voice with nothing in it: it's on order. Bring this next time and collect.
The fourth time he came, most of the lamps were out. The stalls stood empty on both sides all the way down, and only the one at the far end was still lit.
There were three things laid out on it. His brother's watch. The letter. And a pair of shoes.
He looked down at his feet. They were the same shoes.
The stallholder was crouched with his back to him, threading a bronze coin onto a cord that already carried a great many. He said, hey. The hands stopped. The stallholder turned — only far enough to be a shape against the lamp — and held out an open palm to be paid.
Every trader in that market had once been a customer. The ones who ran out of years stayed on to collect them.