The next morning, Aaron stood in the doorway with Lily, one hand on the cool brass handle, the other wrapped loosely around the key ring.
The keys were warm from his palm, clicking softly together as he turned them over, again and again, a small rhythm to match the uneven thrum in his chest.
The thought of returning to the market tugged at him in two directions—part of him was drawn forward, wanting to taste the life in those busy streets again, and part of him was tugging back, wary of the noise and the crowd.
The weight in his chest wasn't the sharp, suffocating pressure that had gripped him yesterday.
No, today it was a quieter kind of unease.
A flutter, like the quick wings of a bird caught in his ribs.
Nervous. Uncertain.
But not crushing.
Almost… anticipatory.
Like standing at the edge of something that might be good, if he could just take that one step forward.
Beside him, Lily shifted her stance, adjusting her crutches with an easy motion born of long practice. The early light filtered through the leaves outside, catching in her hair so it glowed faintly golden at the edges. She tilted her head to look at him, a hint of a smile curving her lips—small, but warm enough to cut through the morning chill.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice quiet, but with a little playful lift at the end.
Aaron's fingers rolled the keys again, the metal clicking together softly like a secret only he could hear. He drew in a slow breath, one that reached just a little deeper than the ones before. "As I'll ever be," he said, a half-smile tugging at his own mouth.
They stepped outside.
The cobblestones were slick from the night's rain, glistening under the thin wash of morning sun. Water pooled in shallow dips, mirroring fractured pieces of sky. The air was crisp—sharp enough to make him pull his jacket a little tighter—but not biting. The faint scent of wet earth mingled with the sharper notes of herbs drifting from somewhere down the lane.
Their footsteps echoed softly until the first distant notes of the market began to reach them.
This time, the noise didn't slam into him like a solid wall.
It came in pieces—threaded together like a tapestry that slowly took form.
Calls from vendors hawking their wares.
The low hum of bartering voices.
The quick bursts of laughter that tumbled down the narrow streets like marbles spilling across stone.
Lily glanced sideways at him. "Not so bad today?"
"Not so far," he murmured. His eyes flicked to hers for a moment, grateful that she'd asked but even more grateful she didn't push.
The market opened up around them, spilling color into every corner.
Bright awnings fluttered overhead in shades of red, blue, and gold.
Bundles of fresh herbs—mint, basil, rosemary—were tied in neat little bundles that swung gently in the breeze. Tables overflowed with fruit: oranges piled into teetering pyramids, figs split open to reveal their jeweled hearts, pomegranates with skins mottled in sun-warmed red.
A group of children darted past, their arms full of warm bread wrapped in paper, the scent following them in a soft cloud. Somewhere nearby, a man's voice rose above the crowd, booming with enthusiasm as he tried to draw attention to his fish stall.
Aaron felt the hum of it all, but it didn't pull him under this time. Lily's steady presence was like an anchor tied to something solid and unshakable. She didn't hover or fuss. She just walked at his side—close enough that if he wanted, he could brush his hand against hers.
"You're doing fine," she said without looking at him, as though it were simply a fact, not something to reassure.
He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Feels… different today. Lighter."
"That's how it works," she replied. "One day, the weight just shifts a little. Not all at once, but enough that you notice."
They paused near a stall selling baskets, the woven reeds smelling faintly of sun and straw. The vendor—a woman with a scarf tied around her hair—gave them a friendly nod. Lily returned it, and they moved on.
"You have a good memory of this place," Lily said after a moment. "You remember where things are, even after… you know."
Aaron shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Some things stick, I guess. The smell of cinnamon from that spice stall. The way the fishmonger yells like he's calling across an ocean."
She chuckled softly. "It's nice, isn't it? The way little details can survive."
They kept walking, the crowd shifting around them like a tide. Every step felt like reclaiming a piece of something he'd lost—not fully his yet, but close enough to touch.
They wandered through the winding streets, their pace unhurried, letting the market spill its colors and scents around them. The air was thick with the mingled perfumes of baking bread, sun-warmed spices, and the sweet, nutty aroma of almonds roasting somewhere close by. The scent clung to the cool morning breeze, wrapping around Aaron like a patchwork quilt—warm here, sharp there, a hundred little sensory stitches.
Somewhere just out of sight, a musician plucked at a lute, the strings singing a tune that was bright and quick, the kind of melody that made the air feel lighter, as though the cobblestones themselves might start dancing underfoot. The sound wove between the voices of vendors, slipping into the spaces between their shouts like a thread of gold in rough cloth.
Vendors called out to them with practiced cheer, their words tumbling over one another in an eager chorus. Tables brimmed with the morning's pride: scarves dyed in deep, regal reds and glimmering golds, their fringes fluttering like soft flames in the breeze; polished wood carvings, each smoothed to a finish so perfect Aaron half-wondered if they'd melt like chocolate in his hands; glass jars filled with amber honey, jewel-bright preserves, and sugared petals, all catching the sunlight and scattering it in fractured rainbows across the stalls.
Lily's steps slowed when they came to a small stall displaying painted ceramics. The pieces were laid out on a linen-draped table—mugs, plates, and bowls, each decorated in delicate swirls of color and tiny, whimsical creatures. She reached for a mug shaped like a fox, her fingers brushing over its cool, glossy surface. The little creature's face was caught mid-smirk, ears tall and alert, its painted eyes gleaming with sly amusement.
"This one looks like you," she said, her tone playfully certain, and shot him a sidelong glance that was half-smirk, half-challenge.
Aaron stopped beside her, leaning just enough to get a better look at the mug. "I don't see it," he said after a beat, raising an eyebrow in mock offense. "My ears aren't that pointy."
"No," she agreed, turning the mug slowly in her hands, "but the expression… that's you. Always pretending you're more serious than you actually are."
He blinked at her, momentarily caught between protest and laughter. "…I'm serious most of the time."
Her grin widened. "Exactly what the fox would say."
She set the mug down gently, the ceramic clicking softly against the table, and moved on without further explanation—leaving him in her wake with the faintest curl of amusement tugging at his lips.
He followed. Not because he needed to keep pace—she wasn't moving quickly—but because he wanted to. The tension in his chest had loosened further, the taut knot of apprehension slowly unspooling into something warmer. Quieter. Like the steady glow of coals instead of the sharp burn of a flame.
Aaron let himself look—really look.
Not just at the blur of color and movement, but at the way the world here seemed to arrange itself into quiet, intricate miracles.
The dyed fabrics rippled in the breeze like waves slowed to a dream's pace, their edges whispering against one another.
Brass buttons glinted with each turn and shift, catching the light like tiny stars pinned to jackets and vests.
Stacks of apples rose in perfect pyramids—each fruit polished until its skin was almost glassy, so meticulously balanced that the thought of disturbing them felt like it might unravel some small, unspoken magic.
He let those details settle in his mind like anchors, each one pulling him further into the present.
And then—he saw it.
Tucked at the far corner of a modest stall was a display of handmade jewelry, each piece resting in its own hollow of black velvet so soft it seemed to swallow the light. His gaze skimmed past polished stones in pale blues and deep greens, past delicate chains that caught the sunlight in hair-thin flashes, past charms shaped like moons, leaves, and feathers.
Until it stopped.
A necklace.
A slender silver chain, fine enough to seem weightless, with a pendant shaped like a lavender stalk. Each tiny bud was carved from amethyst, their muted purple softened by the light but still alive with an inner shimmer when they shifted in his view. It was delicate without being fragile, simple without being plain. And somehow, it was her.
Lily had already moved ahead, pausing at a stall with mugs shaped like animals—her crutch tips making a soft tap-tap against the cobblestones as she leaned in to look. Aaron's feet carried him toward the jewelry stall before his mind had even caught up.
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice so it wouldn't carry. "I'll take that one," he murmured, pointing to the lavender pendant.
The vendor's brows lifted, a quiet spark of recognition in their eyes, as though they'd seen this choice a hundred times before. Their smile was small but knowing. Without a word, they plucked the necklace from its stand, placed it in a cream-lined box, and pressed the lid down until it clicked shut—a neat little sound that felt… final, but in the kind of way that settled a thing in place.
Aaron paid quickly, the coins warm against his palm, and slipped the box deep into his pocket. It felt like tucking away a secret, one that needed to be guarded until the right moment. Then he threaded his way through the slow-moving crowd, weaving between passersby until he matched her pace again.
She turned, catching his eyes over her shoulder. "Where'd you wander off to?"
"Just got caught behind a crowd," he said, keeping his tone even, casual, as though his heart wasn't still beating with the echo of that small decision.
She seemed to accept it without suspicion, turning her attention back to the flow of the market. They moved on together, the conversation between them finding its rhythm again, light and unhurried.
A new scent drifted toward them, cutting through the tapestry of market smells—rich coffee and warm butter, as if the air itself had turned indulgent. Lily's nose lifted slightly, her eyes half-closing in pleasure as she inhaled.
"That smells incredible," she said, tilting her head toward a small café nestled between two stalls draped in striped awnings.
Inside, the air wrapped around them like a blanket—warmer, quieter, its edges softened by the faint hiss of steaming milk and the muted clink of cutlery against plates. They found a table near the window, where the sunlight poured in through hanging plants and fell in dappled patches across the worn wood.
Their orders came quickly: thick sandwiches layered with crisp greens and bright tomatoes, mugs of steaming tea that painted the air between them with a faint herbal sweetness.
"It's less crowded in here," Lily said, resting her chin in her hand as she studied him. "You seem more relaxed today."
Aaron gave a faint smile, the kind that unfurled slowly rather than arriving all at once. "It's… not as bad," he admitted. "Guess having you here helps."
Her lips curved upward at that, but she glanced out the window as though her attention was elsewhere. Even so, a soft flush had crept into her cheeks—a quiet little giveaway that he caught and stored away in the same pocket as the box.
When the food came, they ate slowly, neither of them in any rush to let the moment slip away. Their meal stretched into an easy rhythm—bite, sip, a quiet laugh—punctuated by small stories and harmless complaints.
They talked about nothing and everything.
How the park's fountain looked like something straight out of a fairy tale, the kind that made you half expect a swan to glide past wearing a crown.
How Lily, in a burst of kitchen ambition, had once tried to bake bread and ended up fusing the loaf to the pan so thoroughly she'd considered selling it as a modern art sculpture.
How Aaron still couldn't fold a fitted sheet without it collapsing into a shameful, crumpled ball that mocked him from the laundry basket.
The café's low hum wrapped around them like a soft blanket—cutlery clinking, cups being set down, the occasional muted laugh from another table. By the time their plates were empty, the light spilling through the window had shifted from a warm morning gold to the gentler tones of early afternoon, soft and slow.
After lunch, they wandered toward the park, the cobblestones underfoot warm from the sun. A faint breeze carried the mingled scents of grass and distant woodsmoke, threading through the air in lazy ribbons.
They settled on the wide stone lip of the fountain. The water glittered where sunlight touched it, sending small shards of light dancing across their faces. Lily's laughter—soft and warm—rose above the steady burble of the fountain, mingling with Aaron's deeper, slower voice in a rhythm that felt… easy. Every so often, the breeze caught the spray, sending a cool mist across their skin, leaving tiny beads of water clinging like dew.
"They'll be back tomorrow," Lily said after a pause, her eyes following a small cluster of sparrows hopping along the edge of the fountain. She didn't need to clarify who she meant.
Aaron nodded, a small twist forming in his chest—something tangled, a strange mix of relief and… apprehension, maybe. "You excited?"
"Yeah… but I'm glad I had these days with you first."
There was something in her voice that made his stomach feel oddly light, the way it sometimes did when stepping too close to the edge of something vast. Words with a weight he wasn't ready to fully unpack. He only smiled—small, but genuine—and let the silence rest between them.
They stayed out for hours, watching the afternoon slowly bleed into early evening. The shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, the air grew cooler, and the faint smell of cooking fires drifted from the market like an invitation.
On the way home, they stopped at a stall for a bundle of fresh bread, a wedge of soft cheese, and a carton of berries, the warm paper bag crinkling gently between them as they walked.
After dinner, Lily gathered the plates and carried them into the kitchen. Aaron remained at the table, his fingers brushing the outline of the small box in his pocket. He could feel the smooth lid beneath his thumb, the faint, certain weight of it pressing into his palm as if reminding him: now or never.
When she came back, drying her hands on a dish towel, he cleared his throat. "Hey… got something for you."
Her brow lifted slightly, curiosity sparking in her eyes as he held out the box. She set the towel aside, her fingers moving with a quiet care as she took it. She traced the edges for a moment—almost like she was feeling the gift before even opening it—then eased the lid back.
Her breath caught. "Aaron… it's beautiful."
"You like lavender," he said, feeling an uncomfortable warmth climb up the back of his neck. "It just… felt right."
She closed the box gently, holding it briefly against her chest before leaning forward. Her crutches stood forgotten against the wall as her arms wrapped around him. Her embrace was warm in a way that went past fur and muscle, settling somewhere deeper, where words couldn't quite reach.
"I love it," she murmured against his shoulder. "Thank you."
His smile was quiet, but this time it reached his eyes. For once, it didn't feel like he'd just avoided breaking something—he'd actually made something right.
They lingered there, the moment soft and unhurried, before finally heading upstairs. Each retreated to their own room, but as Aaron lay in the dim quiet, the thought stayed with him—steady and certain.
Maybe, just maybe… this was what healing felt like.