Before there were shelves, there was the road — and the road was cruel.

It wound through twisted forest and drowned towns, where the earth still whispered with the voices of those buried too shallow. Somewhere along that cursed stretch, a shop took root. Not out of mercy, but defiance. Its walls were nailed together with weary prayers and rotted timber, its lantern light trembling but unbroken. The door does not open for the careless. Only the battle-worn and the marrow-brave find it stand' in the fog, waitin'. Perhaps that's why you're here.

Inside, the air is thick — the scent of rain on iron, tea brewed over old coals, and something older still, humming beneath the floorboards. The shelves are lined with artifacts not of ease but of endurance — charms, relics, and rites for the soul too stubborn to fall. This is no gentle magic. Each object is weighted, meant to bind you to the livin' when shadows would pull you down.

Rest here, while you can. Mend what the world has splintered. Gather your strength beneath the crooked rafters. And when the door takes you back into the night, know this: the shop clings to you.