Mrs Potts' Father's Desk

It stands silently in the stationary shop’s window. Aged wood polished with years of arm movements and varnished with the shuffle of papers over its surface.
Holes visible where ropes slid through to form crude handles when it was still a crate journeying between Europe and Africa all those years ago.

"If you look under the top, you can still see the serial numbers of the crate." said Armstrong.

I'd seen it as I passed through the mall before and fell a little in love with it. Once I wondered what its price was. Now I know, there is none.