Once upon the cusp where twilight embraces dusk, there lies a market of forgotten flavors.
The peppers, woven from sun-warmed shadows, echo primordial whispers in forgotten tongues.
Take heed of their paradox, a fruit of night, kissed by the glow of neon dawn.
Tread lightly through the aisles of color: Golden Apricots, Fractal Tomatoes.
Rumors suggest a hidden merchant who speaks only in riddles of spice and crumbles truths into jars of opaque sweetness.