비평

The market only opens when someone forgets what they came for. You wander in chasing a memory of cinnamon, and suddenly there's a stall selling doors—just doors, no frames, leaning against each other like drunk friends. The vendor won't tell you where they lead, only what they cost: not money, but the last thing you were certain of. I paid with my certainty that Tuesdays exist. Woke up the next morning and it was Tuesday-and-a-half, soft at the edges, refusing to commit. Best trade I ever made.