The story of Opal

Last week, what should have been just another ordinary day.

A woman lingered by the display window, looking and looking, before finally stepping inside. She asked me about that opal—just the opal, not the jewelry pieces set with golden chains. I quoted her the price, and she hesitated, then noted down the store’s business hours before walking out. She might not come back, I thought, and yet, unlike most customers, something told me she would.

I’ve always been interested in sales, especially in jewelry—there’s just so much to it. But deep down, I knew from the beginning that what truly fascinated me was the act of talking to people. Every stone, every piece of jewelry, is like a

closed book, and the customers—they’re the ones who happen to turn to a certain page.

Around three in the afternoon, the woman returned. I knew she would. Or perhaps I’d been waiting for her. I sat to the side, watching her speak with my boss. She studied that small yet exquisite opal, as though sensing something in it—something that wasn’t joy. Quietly, almost to herself, she murmured, “It’s not even a special occasion. I shouldn’t spoil myself.” But I thought the exact opposite—Who cares about occasions? If you want it, that’s reason enough. As she hesitated, so did I. I wanted to talk to her, to understand what she was thinking. Somehow, I felt there was a connection between her and this stone.

My boss, kind as he was, left us alone. Now facing me, she wore a pair of pearl earrings nearly identical to the ones I’d given my mother. That’s how I started the conversation—carefully, cautiously asking why she was hesitating. Carefully, because I didn’t want her to think I was just pushing her to buy. But she didn’t take it that way. Instead, she answered plainly, solving the mystery in my mind: “My mother-in-law passed away two weeks ago. The hospital where she stayed was called Opal.” She told me her mother-in-law had loved her more deeply than her own mother ever had. Maybe that’s how fate works, I thought. It gives back what was lost, though never in the way we expect.

And so, with sudden certainty, I said, “You should buy it. I feel like this is the connection you’re making in your heart—to someone who loved you.”

In the end, she left. And with her went that opal—the one in the display window, the one that had never been the brightest of them all.