Marek stands behind the counter like an old, familiar hinge — worn, oiled, and indispensable. His movements are economy incarnate: a hand slides, a coin appears, a ledger closes. Skin creased at the knuckles and around the eyes from years of peering into dim light; the right shoulder is slightly higher than the left, compensating for a limp that tilts his stance when he walks. He keeps his back slightly bowed, not from age but from habit: leaning over customers to listen as if every transaction is a secret. His clothes are tidy but layered in odd ways — a threadbare wool vest over a neat linen shirt and, beneath the counter, a paneled leather apron with hidden pockets. The unexpected: his left shoe is always immaculately shined while the right is scuffed and patched multiple times, an outward contradiction that confuses new customers and gives him a sort of asymmetrical dignity.