Mendel Goldberg, with his salt-and-pepper beard curling around a warm smile, wasn't your average businessman. Every morning, before the first rays of dawn kissed the Jerusalem rooftops, he donned his tefillin, the leather prayer boxes strapped to his arm, and swayed in quiet devotion. Then, with a flick of his worn yarmulke, he'd head to Goldberg's Goods, a shop nestled amongst the cobbled alleys of the Old City. Goldberg's Goods wasn't much to look at. Dusty shelves held an eclectic mix of trinkets - ornately carved shofarot (rams' horns), gleaming menorahs, faded tapestries depicting biblical scenes. It was a treasure trove for tourists, a place where history whispered from every corner. Yet, business had been slow lately. Tourists were scarce, and Mendel's once-bustling shop felt like a museum piece itself. One Friday afternoon, as the Shabbat candles flickered to life, a wave of worry washed over Mendel. How would he pay for Miriam's upcoming Bat Mit