The Golden Chain of Oblivion

Old Wang felt like one of the old grandfather clocks he repaired, ticking away in the torrent of time towards an inevitable silence. His watch repair shop, hidden deep in a nearly forgotten alley in the South City, seemed separated from the outside world – a world frenzied over gold hitting 1039 yuan per gram – as if by a pane of dusty glass.

The news came from his neighbor's noisy transistor radio, like a pebble tossed into a stagnant pond. "Old Wang, did you hear? Gold! It's a world made of gold now! 1039 yuan a gram!" His neighbor, Old Li, sputtered, eyes gleaming with a fervor ill-suited to his age.

Old Wang merely nodded, continuing to examine a tiny gear with his magnifying glass. The price of gold? What did it have to do with him? In his life, aside from the meager savings scraped together from fixing clocks, his only "valuable item" was a thin gold necklace left by his deceased wife. The chain was old-fashioned, its purity likely not the highest grade gold, but his wife had treasured it dearly when she was alive, saying it was a keepsake passed down from her mother's side.

However, reality, like a draft blowing through the alley entrance, always found its way through the tightest cracks. The shop rent was rising, and Old Wang's eyesight was worsening; the intricate parts sometimes danced at his fingertips, mocking his decline. 1039 yuan per gram... The number was like a little imp, scratching insistently at his mind. He found the velvet jewelry box. Opening it released a faint scent, a mixture of old times and his wife's vanishing cream. The gold chain lay quietly inside, emitting a warm yet faint glow in the dim light.

He had never thought of selling it. It was a memento, the last thread connecting him to that gentle woman. But now... Old Wang weighed the chain in his hand. It felt light, as light as a memory about to drift away. Perhaps exchanging it for something tangible – paying next month's rent, or buying a more accurate pair of reading glasses – would be the truest way to honor his wife's admonition to 'live in the present'?

The next day, tucking the gold chain away, Old Wang walked out of his familiar alley and merged into the human tide flowing towards the gold shops. The city felt like a colossal machine, roaring, driven by desire. Long queues snaked outside the gold shop entrances, each person's face etched with a similar blend of anxiety and expectation. The air hung thick and hot, a mixture of perfume, sweat, and the metallic tang.

Standing in line, Old Wang felt like a lost lamb strayed into a gambling den. The people ahead were excitedly discussing karats, pure gold, investment returns, their spit flecking Old Wang's worn cloth jacket. When his turn came, the young man behind the counter, dressed in a vest, his gaze hawk-sharp, took the chain. He picked it up with tweezers, shone a bright light on it, examined the markings near the clasp. "Sir, this chain... it's quite old," the young man remarked, a corner of his mouth twitching with professional, barely hidden disdain. "The purity isn't the best, let's call it 965. Based on today's listed price, minus deductions for loss, I can offer you around..." He named a sum.

The sum, though less than Old Wang had anticipated, was enough to tide him over for a while. He almost nodded, his hand already reaching out to sign.

Just then, a voice sounded behind him, soft as a whisper, yet it pierced the clamor of the gold shop: "This chain's value doesn't lie in its weight, sir."

Old Wang turned around, startled. The speaker was a figure clad in a grey robe, their face indistinct, as if they had just stepped out of the pages of an old book. Old Wang hadn't noticed when they appeared, and the jostling crowd seemed utterly unaware of their presence.

"What did you say?" Old Wang asked.

The figure leaned in slightly (nǎklónilsya - Russian: to lean/bend, here meaning closer), their voice dropping lower: "Each link locks away a forgotten memory. Are you sure you want to measure it by secular grams? It connects, perhaps, to the past you can barely hold onto anymore."

The words struck Old Wang's muddled thoughts like lightning. Forgotten memories? He had been becoming more forgetful recently; sometimes, even his wife's face blurred in his mind. He gazed at the chain. It no longer felt like cold metal; it seemed to possess warmth, breath. Each link... holding a memory? The notion was preposterous, yet it held an undeniable, magnetic pull.

The young man behind the counter tapped impatiently on the surface. "Well, sir? Selling or not? There are people waiting!"

Old Wang snapped back to the present, the crowd's noise washing over him again. He glanced to where the grey-robed figure had been, but they had vanished into the shifting bodies as if they'd never existed. A hallucination? Or...?

He took a deep breath, took the chain back from the young man, and clutched it tightly in his palm. The cool metal felt remarkably grounding now. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not selling it."

He turned and squeezed his way out of the throng, like escaping a phantasmagoric dream. From behind, he heard the young man mutter, "Weird old guy..."

Walking back towards the alley entrance, the sunlight felt pleasantly warm on Old Wang. He took out the chain, holding it up to the light. The links glinted, as if something vital truly flowed within them. He remembered the gentle smile that crinkled the corners of his wife's eyes when she wore it; he recalled the quiet, warm years they had spent together. Could 1039 yuan per gram ever buy that?

Back in his shop, he carefully placed the chain back into its velvet box and locked it securely in the deepest drawer. In that instant, the dripping sound from the leaky ceiling seemed less irritating, and the tiny gears on his workbench appeared sharper, more distinct.

That evening, Old Li came by again, looking dejected. "Don't talk about it, Old Wang! The gold price suddenly tanked this afternoon! Said it was international market fluctuations, who knows! My little savings, all locked in!" He lamented, wringing his hands in regret.

Old Wang quietly handed him a cup of hot tea, remaining silent. Outside the window, the city's noise carried on, forever chasing the next trend, the next figure. But here, in this forgotten alley, Old Wang's small shop felt like an island isolated in time. He knew he was guarding something more than just an old gold chain; he was protecting something far more precious – memories that were close to vanishing, now re-anchored by his decision not to sell.

Perhaps the grey-robed figure hadn't been an illusion. Perhaps, in this world where everything was measured in currency, there remained pockets where different metrics applied: the measure of memory, the measure of love. Like diverging paths in a Borgesian labyrinth, they led to unseen dimensions. And Old Wang, standing at the entrance of that frenetic gold shop, had inadvertently chosen a road less traveled, a road leading to inner tranquility. He looked down at his calloused, oil-stained hands, almost sensing a steady, faint warmth emanating from the 'golden chain of oblivion'. Night fell deeper, and the old grandfather clock began its tireless 'tick-tock' once more, marking every mundane, yet singular, moment.