They say it appears only when you’re not trying to get anywhere.
Tucked behind a wall that looks like it leads to a dead end.
Down a stairwell that wasn’t there yesterday.
Or inside a hallway where the ceiling feels just a little too low.
The Market That Doesn’t Want to Be Found is small — not more than ten stalls.
But it stretches, somehow.
No signs. No shouting.
Only the hum of soft fans.
And the whisper of things you didn’t know you were missing.
One stall sells lanterns that glow differently when you’re alone.
Another sells tea made from leaves that forget their names. One sells shoes that remember where you last danced.
The prices aren’t listed. Because they’re not measured in coins.
You pay with something softer: Time you didn’t mean to waste.
A memory you kept too long.
A version of yourself you’re ready to shed.
No one tells you to leave. But eventually, you do. And when you look back — the wall is solid again.