On a street slightly removed from the village, there is an old, worn-down shop. The building, bearing a hand-painted sign reading "Ichimatsuya," had its exterior paint peeling, and a rusty wind chime swayed with a grating sound at the eaves. Beyond the glass door, it was dim inside, and various objects could be seen piled up in disarray. Tools, old machine parts, thick dictionaries, and numerous mysterious bottles. True to a handyman's shop, all sorts of things were crammed into every available space. The door creaked slightly, and the doorbell let out a dull clang. There was the sensation of someone having entered.