The shop on the corner has no owner. 

Tucked between a tailor and a butcher, it might be hard to pinpoint with no welcome sign to signal it. But its clients are loyal, familiar with the draping velvet curtains and permeating scent of dust. Books lay on nearly every surface of the front room, read only by some invisible force. 

The first man hides his face with his silk top hat. Dusk has given way to night when he knocks on the door, wincing at the prospect of dirtying his gleaming white gloves. The street is deserted but gently lit by the gas lamp. 

When no one answers the door, as to be expected, he lets himself in. There might not be a lock, but the first rule is to never show your face in daylight.

He removes his hat, lighting a candle that obscures his features in flickering shadows. In this state you might mistake him for handsome, with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. We’ll never know without the candle. 

Moving towards the back, firelight flickers off the beaded curtain, melting the stones of the wall. The suited man parts the curtains with the ease of someone who’s never been denied the access he wished for. Particles swirl in the air as the fabric shifts, despite the fact that business has been quite regular. 

The back room is rounded, leaving the rectangular shape of the building to the imagination. He didn’t know what he expected, when he was slipped the address by a colleague in a red tie, late at one of those work dinners. Certainly something more substantial. 

Deep purple walls make the room seem smaller than it is, but most of the space is taken up by an ornate wooden table and its matching chairs. Even more velvet, green, covers the seat. He sets his candle down, pausing as the light catches on two objects at the center of the table.

Two small dice. 

They’re simple. White with black dots. Had he seen them on the street, he would have assumed they belonged to a child who forgot to pack their game up. In the drawing room with a flask of whiskey, they may have tempted him into a small bet. Unassuming.

He draws the chair out to wait, pulling the card from his pocket to recheck the address. It’s correct. His colleague’s voice haunts him, asking if he has what it takes. 

After a few minutes, no one emerges to give him instructions and the man takes things into his own hands. Without his gloves, the dice are cool in his hands, clinking together gently as he rolls them. 

The poor man doesn’t know what he’s done when he leaves. 

He wakes up to a promotion the next morning, unexpected but very welcome. He comes home to share the good news, and instead finds his lover drowned in the bathtub, limbs twisted and crushed. The police rule it suicide, never mind the blood dripping down the porcelain. 

He never returns to the shop, grows into old age in the house they bought together, alone. 

The next night, two women approach arm in arm, draped in fine cloth as the man before. They don’t try knocking, familar with the workings of the dice. They don’t light the candles either, weaving through furniture with practiced grace. 

Tonight, the table has an extra chair. They claim their respective seats before they each take a die. 

Splitting the cost so to speak. 

A small miracle for a small price. 

One of them will find a twenty dollar bill on the sidewalk tomorrow, the other will go home to be surprised with their favorite dinner cooked by their partner. The price may only be a small scrape, a stubbed toe.

Nowhere near as much blood as the first man gave.

And, if after years, their friends and family start to question their hidden scars and luck, they have a cover for each other. 

The final customer in the week is nothing but a small child. They grip a coin tight in their pocket, certain there must be a price despite what the strange man in a red tie had said. Their mother would protest if they saw them going into the store without being invited, but no one had answered their knocks. The door closes behind them, bell clanging useless as the light of day is blotted out.

Against the opulence of the room, the kid looks small in a stained frock and fraying boots. The ridges of the coin dig into their hand, leaving a circle of red indents. They hesitate when they see the candles, but decide against lighting them in case the shopkeeper has a different purpose for them. 

Without the light of the candle, the child bangs into furniture over and over again as they move towards the back room. Bruises bloom under their clothes, hopefully invisible in the morning light. 

They opt to stand, not sure if the chair is for them or clients that they assume must have more important business, based on the stateliness of the room. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and when seen only out of the corner of one’s eye it appears to be swaying in the breeze. It stops as the child glances up, but continues its gentle dance once they return their attention to the dice. 

It’s a simple wish, one they weren’t even aware they really had. And maybe some old god took pity, watching from their perch on the curtain rod. The child wavers before leaving the coin on the table by the dice they’ve just rolled. It’s not much payment they decide, but something has to be better than nothing.

After school the next day, their father has scraped together enough spare change for a new pair of shoes. The blisters only bleed for a few days, before scabing over as though they had never been there.

The store dissolves too, blending back into the shop between the tailor and the butcher as morning light finds the city streets bustling again. 

No one comes to tempt Fate during the day. Not anymore.