Xaltal and Aymara entered the store, the air thick with the scent of old wood and something faintly floral, like roses just beginning to dry. The shop had a dim yet inviting glow, with the dull hum of lights reflecting off the polished shelves lining the walls. Each shelf was stacked with intricate dolls, figurines, and various trinkets, some dusty from age, others gleaming as though freshly polished. The small aisles created a minor labyrinth of sorts, making it easy for someone to get lost in the plethora of delicate items.
To their right, just behind the counter, a TV perched precariously on a high shelf flickered faintly, the sound low but clear. The screen showed a current news broadcast covering the latest issue plaguing the Beacon District. The clerk, a woman in her late twenties with short cropped hair and tired eyes, watched with little interest as the reporter spoke hurriedly.
