The antique shop was tucked between a shuttered bakery and a pawn shop, its windows fogged with dust. The sign above the door read "Elias & Co. – Curiosities & Collectibles." No one knew who Elias was, or if he even existed. The owner was always a different person, but they all had the same name: Elias. It was said that the shop changed hands every few years, and each new Elias carried the same quiet, knowing smile. Lila found it on a rainy afternoon, after wandering through the city for hours. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just hoping to escape the cold. The shop’s door creaked open as she stepped inside, the bell above jingling like a forgotten memory. The air smelled of aged wood and something faintly metallic. Inside, the shop was dimly lit, the shelves lined with oddities—glass orbs that seemed to swirl with trapped starlight, books bound in cracked leather, and a set of porcelain teacups that never held tea. Lila wandered past them, drawn to a small, unmarked box on the far shelf. It was wrapped in faded red cloth, the edges frayed and stained. Something about it called to her. “Do you like it?” The voice startled her. A man stood behind the counter, his face half-hidden by shadow. He wore a long coat, and his eyes were too sharp, too knowing. “That box has been waiting for someone.” “I don’t know,” Lila said, unsure why she was speaking. “It just… feels right.” He nodded, as if he had expected this. “It’s not for sale. But if you take it, you must understand—once you open it, you can never put it back.” She hesitated, then reached out. The moment her fingers touched the cloth, a chill ran up her spine. The box was warm, despite the cold air. When she opened it, there was nothing inside but a single photograph. It showed a woman standing in front of the same shop, smiling, her face familiar yet distant. Lila’s breath caught. The woman looked exactly like her. “Where did this come from?” she asked, turning to the man, but he was gone. The shop was empty now, the door ajar, the rain tapping softly against the window. Back at her apartment, Lila studied the photo. The background was the same shop, but the date on the corner of the frame was from 1987. She hadn’t been born yet. And yet, the woman in the picture was her mother. Over the next few days, things began to change. Her reflection in the mirror sometimes moved without her. She heard whispers in the walls when no one was home. The photograph became more vivid, as if it were watching her. One night, she woke to find the box sitting on her desk, open, the photo now showing a younger version of herself, standing outside the shop, smiling. She tried to throw it away, but the box refused to leave her hands. It appeared in her pockets, in her backpack, even in her dreams. The shop was still there, but when she returned, it was gone, replaced by an empty lot where the pavement was cracked and moss grew through the cracks. Lila began to see other people who had taken the box. They were all different, yet they shared the same look—eyes wide, lips parted in silent recognition. Some whispered to themselves, others laughed without reason. One man, pale and gaunt, stared at the sky as if expecting something to fall from it. She couldn’t stop thinking about the photo. Each time she looked at it, the image shifted slightly, revealing more of the shop, more of the people inside. She realized the shop wasn’t just a place—it was a loop, a cycle. Every time someone took the box, they became part of the story. The shop didn’t change; it was always there, waiting for the next Elias. One morning, Lila found the box again, now filled with other photographs. Each one showed a different version of herself, in different times, different places. She saw herself as a child, holding the box. She saw herself older, sitting in the shop, smiling at a new customer. She finally understood. The box wasn’t cursed. It was a memory. A loop. A place where time folded in on itself, where those who entered became part of the story, forever caught between past and present. And as she sat in her apartment, the box resting on the table, she wondered—was she the first? Or just another chapter in a tale that had already been written?