The antique shop crouched between a fried chicken franchise and a closed-down noraebang, its windows fogged with dust and its sign so faded the letters had become abstract art. A bell chimed as Y/n pushed through the door.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old paper, camphor wood, and something metallic that clung to the back of the throat. Shelves bowed under the weight of porcelain vases, tarnished brass scales, and lacquered boxes whose contents had been forgotten decades ago.

Behind her, a low shelf held a jumble of items: a cracked celadon jar, a stack of vinyl records, a child's wooden top. And at the very edge, half-hidden behind a brass incense burner, something caught the light.

Silver. Tarnished but unmistakable—a lamp.