I was out on Saturday, just wandering around the East Village with no real plan. You know those days when you step outside and the light is just right, not too harsh, not too dim, and the air smells like coffee and something baking? That kind of day. I had my usual route: grab an iced latte from that hole-in-the-wall spot, then drift into whatever vintage store catches my eye. Anyway, I ended up at this little shop I’d never seen before. It was tucked between a laundromat and a bodega, the sign barely visible. Inside, it was chaos in the best way—racks crammed with silk blouses, stacks of denim,…