Our Story
Cuckoo’s Bazaar
The little cuckoo bird didn't have a name. He didn't have a home either, not a proper one anyway. His days were a blur of fleeting roosts on dusty awnings and hurried flights between the concrete canyons of the city. He was a cuckoo, and instinct told him to find a new nest, as the city was full of human nests, and none of them felt quite right.
One day, his wandering led him to the edge of the city, to a small, cobblestone road, where the usual grey gave way to a riot of color. At the end of the road, concealed by an abundance of greenery, was a secluded storefront unlike any he had ever seen.
The window was a jumble of fascinating oddities: a teapot shaped like a startled cat, a lamp with a base of twisting roots, and a collection of ceramic faces with expressions ranging from gleeful to grumpy. It was a world of surprises, collected and curated with care. A small, hand-painted sign above the door read "The Curious Bazaar."
Hesitantly, he hopped onto the open door-frame, his small heart a-flutter. The air inside smelled of dust and old wood, but also of something warm and comforting, like spiced cider. A mother and her two young girls, no older than ten or eleven, were busy arranging a shelf of intricately painted figurines. One girl, with long braids, spotted him first.
"Look, a cuckoo!" she whispered, her eyes wide with delight.
The other girl, her hair tied up in a messy bun, giggled. "He must have flown out of a clock! Welcome Mr. Cuckoo!"
And just like that, he had a name! He hopped further into the shop, his curiosity overcoming his fear. The bazaar was a treasure trove of the strange and wonderful. Wall art that seemed to shimmer with a life of its own hung besides melted clocks and animal shaped adornments.
Mugs with fantastical creatures painted on them sat next to table lamps shaped like mushrooms.
This was certainly no ordinary bazaar! There were no spices, no textiles - just an unending assortment of delightful and whimsical curiosities. The cuckoo bird felt a kinship with these things, these beautiful, quirky objects that were so full of character.
He soon learned the rhythm of the bazaar. He would wake with the morning sun, announcing the new day with a soft "cuckoo!" from his perch on a grandfather clock. He would watch as the girls, Nia and Myrtle, dusted the shelves while their mother was greeting their father.
The family would leave little bowls of water and breadcrumbs for him, and he would preen his feathers, feeling more at home than he ever had before.
His favorite spot was a comfortable nest he made of old ribbons and soft felt in a forgotten corner behind a collection of vintage globes. From there, he could watch the world go by.
He saw the faces of awe-struck customers, their fingers tracing the lines on a miniature globe or marveling at a lamp shaped like a dragon. He saw Myrtle's and Nia's faces light up when someone found a piece that spoke to them.
He wasn't just a stray anymore. He was the cuckoo of the Curious Bazaar. He was part of the family, as curious and quirky as the objects that filled the shop.
And every time an old patron would ask about the new "Cuckoo's" on the sign, Nia and Myrtle would smile and point to the little bird on the grandfather clock, who would proudly call out his name, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" as if to confirm:
"Yes, that's me. And this is my home!
Cuckoo's Bazaar!"