On the edge of a sleepy village, where gravel chips crunched like secrets underfoot, stood a forgotten 1970’s phone box—red, rust-flecked, and humming faintly with static. No one used it anymore, except for Marvin, a retired magician who believed it could still reach other worlds.

One Tuesday, Marvin stepped inside with a bowl of custard and a bunch of bananas tucked under his arm. He dialed a number he’d found scribbled in a vintage Pokémon sticker album: Pikachu-7-Charizard-9. The receiver crackled, then purred.