He only appears in places that forget their names. Old night markets. Back alleys where the signs have faded. Corridors where incense mixes with rain.
His stall is small.
Unmarked.
But always lit — with a lamp that glows from within, like it remembers a story.
They say you don’t find him.
You wander until your silence does.
He sells nothing.
Not really.
But if you stop in front of his stall, he’ll lift a cloth from the table and show you one item.
It will be exactly what you’ve been avoiding.
A photo.
A letter.
A memory shaped like an object.
And if you want it, you can have it. But you have to trade something you still carry.
No money.
Only weight.
What happens next depends on what you give.
Sometimes, people leave lighter.
Sometimes, they leave in tears.
But everyone leaves changed.
They say if you return, the stall won’t be there. But your shadow might be.