Cash only. No refunds for cursed items. That includes emotional damage," he said without inflection.
A man in his thirties approached the shelf labelled 'Authentic Divination Tools.' Camera slung around his neck; fanny pack strapped like armour. The kind who left three-star Yelp reviews complaining about how the tea was 'too mystical.'
"Excuse me," the man said, lifting a pendulum delicately, like it might bite. "Does this actually, uh, divine stuff?"
Harry finally looked up. "Only if you squint and really believe in the power of poor life choices."
The man chuckled, unsure. "Right. Haha. Yeah. My Airbnb host said this place was quirky."
"She's not wrong. I charge extra for existential discomfort though."
Eventually, the man bought a dream stone that gently hummed in sleep and would, if left unattended, whisper regrets from past lives into his pillow. Harry charged him forty dollars and a vague sense of unease. He'd forget the conversation by nightfall, but the dreams would stay for weeks.
Harry watched him leave.
Another customer arrived shortly after — a woman in business attire with a nervous expression and a question about fertility charms. Harry leaned over the counter. "One spoon of dragonroot, three petals of denial, and a whisper from someone you don't speak to anymore. Steep for seven nights."