Strength Has No Return Policy
A short story
The shop was tucked away in a side street, the kind where luxury does not wish to be noticed.
Muted light, heavy fabrics, glass surfaces without a trace of dust. Everything felt decided. Nothing allowed doubt—not even the room itself.
Behind a pedestal stood Mr Veyra.
On it: a statue. Smooth. Flawless. Deliberately neutral.
A plaque in front bore the inscription:
“Everything happens for a reason — to make me stronger.”
Below it, in fine, almost courteous lettering:
By purchasing this statue, you agree to fully integrate the depicted character trait into your own personality structure.
The transfer will occur gradually but irreversibly. Doubt, ambivalence, and situational relativisation will be reduced in favour of inner firmness.
Revocation is excluded.
Strength has no return policy.
When Marek and Clara entered, Mr Veyra brightened immediately.
“Welcome! What a pleasure — truly, what a stroke of luck! You have arrived at exactly the right moment.”
He spread his arms as if the day itself had been waiting for this encounter.
“May I, with the greatest enthusiasm, present to you our latest — perhaps even our most significant — piece?”
Marek stopped at once.
“Oh… that is… that is powerful.”
He stepped closer, almost reverently. “It speaks to me.”
Clara remained half a step behind.
“Hm. I don’t know. Are you sure?”
Mr Veyra smiled knowingly and lowered his voice.
“An extraordinarily sought-after work. It embodies inner firmness — not that fluttering self-confidence, but calm strength. Steadfastness that does not question, but stands. Resilience that does not reflect, but endures.”
A small, proud nod.
“So many people long for precisely this: finally no longer wavering. No longer being easily unsettled. A clear interior. No constant weighing of options.”
Almost casually, he added:
“The fine print regulates the transfer.”
Marek froze.
“The what?”
“The trait,” Mr Veyra said kindly. “It becomes part of you.”
For a moment, there was silence.
Then something tipped.
“What?! Excuse me?!” Marek’s voice cracked. “Why would anyone acquire traits like that?”
He laughed sharply. “I might as well cast myself straight into a concrete statue! That would still have more contextual sensitivity than this!”
Clara raised her hands placatingly.
“Please… calm down…”
“Calm down?!” Marek cut in. “This is emotional junk in a marble disguise! Ideology with a price tag!”
Clara looked at Mr Veyra — calmly, almost apologetically.
“Please excuse him. He doesn’t mean it that way.”
Mr Veyra cleared his throat.
“Now really. This is a respectable establishment.”
“Respectable?” Marek laughed bitterly. “Don’t make me laugh. Selling trash like this—”
He turned abruptly to Clara.
“I’m in a bad mood now. We’re leaving.”
Mr Veyra stepped forward, his friendliness now visibly chipped.
“Values do not emerge from doubt, but from decision,” he said sharply.
“Demand is not a flaw, but fatigue with endless ‘perhaps’.”
“And besides—”
He drew himself up.
“We do not sell illusions. We deliver clarity — clarity that remains, even when it costs.
If that exposes anyone, it is only those who never had the courage for unambigui—”
The door slammed shut.
Outside, a few metres down the street, Marek and Clara stopped.
For a brief moment. Then they both burst out laughing at the same time.
“It was, as always, a pleasure,” Marek said.
Clara nodded.
“Likewise, my dear. Likewise.”
Written on 13 January 2026 at 16:20. © 2026 Whisper7. All rights reserved.