H equals X.

There you are! Come in!

My apologies for the dim light.

Some objects prefer the room this way.

Here on the counter, do mind your fingers.

Lies lot 105.

A coin.

Ordinary at first glance. Silver, soft-edged from decades of handling.

See how one face is nearly black with tarnish, yet the other?

Well, polish it how you like.

It will always gleam like a mirror.

Its previous owner insisted, and I do mean insisted,

that the coin could not be lost.

Drop it, discard it, throw it into a gutter,

and it will find its way home again.

Not to a place, mind you.

To a person.

This one's called,

My Dying Mother promised her guardian angel would protect me.

Before we begin, I want to point out some of the customers whose names have been etched in brass

on this beautiful plaque I had made

above the front desk. These are some of the members of the inner circle of the antiquarium.

...