“The shop is a cluttered lean-to stitched from scrap metal and tarpaulin, shaded by a sagging awning of patched sails and a lattice of living vine-sprouts. Everything smells of ash, salt, and herbs — vials clink in crates, jars of pickled fungus wobble on every surface, and the floor is buried under bundles of dried moss. Maris is never seen without her soot-streaked cloak and a brass respirator rigged with moss filters; she names every jar and argues with her collecting jars as if they answer back. Bargains can involve trading stories of the Waste; she'll give a discount for a genuine bloom sample or a useful map of a ruined irrigation line. Beware the cat-sized spore-moth that nests in the rafters — it hoards shiny things and sometimes returns your bought item with a 'gift' stuck to it.”