Picture a narrow, dimly lit alcove wedged between a leather bag vendor and a shop selling psychedelic scarves, just a few steps past Leopold Café, on the Shahid Bhagat Singh Road stretch. The stall is not inside a building, but it's tucked under a crumbling colonial awning, with faded green shutters that creak when the wind picks up. It's the kind of place you'd miss if you weren't looking for it—or if fate didn't nudge you in.
The stall itself is open-fronted, but shadowy, with a single flickering bulb casting long shadows over brass compasses, chipped porcelain dolls, and sepia-toned photographs. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and mildew. A cracked mirror leans against the back wall, reflecting not your face, but something just slightly… off.
Among rusted lockets and dusty mirrors, an old fakir eyes you curiously and offers a bizarre trade: your old school eraser for a keychain of mismatched charms. Something about it feels… right. The moment your fingers brush the charms, time slows. Crows caw in reverse. Rain drips upward.
Chiku appears for the first time — wing ruffled, attitude loud. "You've touched the Timelines. Congrats, chai girl. You've really done it now."