Rows of blue tarps stretch like a patchwork sea. Underneath them, the "ymd" of decades past—Year, Month, Day—is scrambled. A 1986 Walkman sits beside a 2011 digital camera, both waiting for a hand that remembers their weight. There is a specific smell here: a mix of sun-warmed rubber, old paper, and the sharp, salty steam from a nearby yakisoba stall.