The trade fair buzzed with noise—chatter, haggling, the screech of chairs dragged across concrete. Makeshift stalls filled the university courtyard like a miniature bazaar, each student desperate to offload old gadgets, textbooks, clothes, or handmade crafts. It was the final week of the semester, and everyone was scrambling for last-minute funds—some for vacations, others for final projects.
Alex stood behind his modest table near the edge of the crowd, watching students drift past. He was tall—about six feet even—with short black hair that framed his face in soft, windswept tufts. His features were sharp but not severe, the kind of face that might've landed him a modeling gig if life had handed him different cards. His shirt was clean but faded, and his jeans had been patched twice at the knees. He stood straight, proud, even though everything on the table in front of him spoke of letting go.
A battered but functional tablet. A sketchpad with detailed machine schematics. A set of science fiction novels with cracked spines. And a few old accessories: rings, a digital watch, and a silver chain with a star-shaped pendant gleaming softly under the sun.
A girl with dyed green hair and thick bracelets running up both arms paused in front of him, eyeing the necklace.
"This one," she said, tapping the silver moon with a chipped black nail. "It looks... ancient. You selling it?"
Alex looked at her, then down at the pendant. For a moment, the noise of the trade fair dulled, muffled by the weight of memory. He picked up the necklace gently and ran his thumb across the smooth curve of the moon.
"It's not for sale," he said.
"Everything has a price," she said, reaching into her tote bag. "I'll give you two hundred credits."
He shook his head. "It's a family heirloom."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're wearing patched jeans and selling your textbooks. Doesn't exactly scream 'luxury of sentiment.'"
Alex forced a smile, polite but final. "There are things you don't sell. This is one of them."
She stared at him for a moment longer, then shrugged. "Suit yourself, star boy."
As she disappeared into the crowd, Alex slipped the necklace into the inside pocket of his jacket, where it rested close to his heart. His fingers lingered there. Not for protection. For reassurance.
He had exactly twenty-three credits in his account. The cheapest fare back to the orphanage on the outer ring of Blue Star's western province cost twenty-five.
He still needed two.