Rumpelstiltskin wanted a shop where every desperate soul in the land would come to trade their dearest thing. He already had the building. His cottage sat two miles from the Dark Forest, its stone walls wrapped in vines, its windows dark. The trouble was simple. No one knew he had returned to Rosenwald, and no one came. A century ago this town exiled him over a bad bargain with its Queen. Now he was back, and the silence was worse than the hatred had been. A shop with no customers is just a lonely house. Only witches found him. They came hunted and afraid, trading rare things to hide from the Order's hunters. He took their treasures gladly. But witches were few, and they hid. He needed common folk. Bakers. Widows. Fathers behind on rent. Desperate people with secrets to sell. So the little man walked into town. He passed a warning sign that hung on rusted chains. Dark Forest ahead, it read. He scowled at it. That sign turned good customers away before they ever reached his door. He reached a market stall heaped with bread and baskets. A woman in a hood stood behind it, counting coins. Rumpelstiltskin climbed onto a crate so she could see his face. "I buy troubles," he said. "Any trouble. I pay in gold or wishes." The woman laughed. Nearby a man and his wife stood arm in arm, laughing too. They thought him a jester. "And who are you, little master?" the woman asked. "A dealer," he said. "My door is open to the desperate." The husband stopped laughing. "The dealer by the Dark Forest?" He pulled his wife back a step. "My grandfather warned us of him. His bargains cost more than you think." Word spread faster than Rumpelstiltskin could speak. Heads turned. The market went quiet. Fear, he saw, traveled better than any crier. He had come to advertise. Instead he had reminded a whole town to be afraid. He climbed down, beaten, and started the long road home. Then a carriage stopped beside him. It was a merchant's carriage, worn and grand, pulled by a tired horse. The rider wore a hooded cloak and a sword at his belt. He looked down at the small man in the dust. "You are the dealer," the rider said. Not a question. "I might be." "I have a debt I cannot pay. My master will take my hands for it." The rider's voice shook. "They say you make the impossible possible." Rumpelstiltskin smiled. Here was his first true customer. The fear that emptied the market had led one desperate man straight to him. "Come to my cottage tomorrow," he said. "Bring the thing you love most." The rider nodded and drove on. Rumpelstiltskin watched the carriage shrink. The town would never advertise for him with kind words. It would advertise with dread. And dread, he now understood, would fill his shop.