The two girls busied themselves with the last of the shop's tasks, sweeping the floor, arranging jars, and tallying coins. Eliza moved with the ease of someone accustomed to helping, though not bound to the same responsibilities as Asoka. She would come when she could, as she was the granddaughter of one of the elders and had her own obligations to attend to—visiting relatives, assisting at the manor, or accompanying her family to church matters. Their friendship, while fast-growing, was still limited by the demands of her own life.
Asoka watched her leave down the dirt path, waving lightly. "Until next time," she called. The quiet returned to the shop, the only sound the faint clatter of jars and the soft ticking of the clock above the counter. She straightened the shelves once more, wiped her hands on her apron, and gathered her own belongings to make the walk home.
The evening air was cool as she carried the last basket along the familiar path. She hummed softly, thinking over the day—the overturned barrels, the apples, the laughter that had felt so new—and the strange, tall man who had lingered at the market. He had asked simple questions, nothing threatening, yet there had been something in his eyes that made her uneasy. Still, she had dismissed it at the time; strangers passed through the settlement often enough.
It was only when she set her baskets down at home, brushing dirt from her hands, that a small unease settled fully in her chest. Something was… missing. She couldn't place it at first. The herbs? No, they were all accounted for. The vegetables? Nothing seemed out of place. But as she checked the shelves in the shop again, a sinking realization took root.
A small pouch of coins she had tucked into a corner—saved for weeks, every copper counted—was gone. She frowned, searching the floor, the counter, even the pockets of her apron. Nothing. Her mind immediately went back to the stranger in the shop. He had lingered near the herbs and spices, and while she had thought little of him then, now the memory prickled at her.
"Could it…?" she whispered to herself, unease twisting in her stomach. The thought that someone could take what little she had so casually felt impossible. Yet it had happened. She could not imagine a mistake, not with the careful way she ran the shop, not in front of Eliza. And no one else had been near the shelves long enough to do it without her noticing.
Her heart beat faster as she replayed the day. The stranger had been calm, polite, almost too quiet, and she had barely given him more than a glance. Perhaps it was her own fault—too distracted by the overturned apples, the laughter with Eliza, the chatter of the market. Still, the thought of the missing pouch made the hairs on the back of her neck stand.
She set down the basket of remaining goods and sank onto the bench outside her shop, rubbing her temples. The village, with all its familiar routines—the elders, the tithes, the church, the market—had always felt predictable. And yet now, for the first time in a long while, she realized that even here, in the quiet settlement she had known all her life, surprises could come—and not all of them would be welcome.
She thought of Eliza, her laughter, the easy way she had handled the spilled apples and grain. If only life could always be that simple. But this was not a day for simplicity. Asoka looked down the path toward the hills, the sky turning pink and gold, and felt that same flicker she had felt in the market: the sense that the world beyond her daily routine was larger, stranger, and more uncertain than she had imagined.
She lingered there for a moment, hands resting against the rough wood of the fence, listening to the evening settle. The sounds of the settlement were familiar—pots being cleared, voices calling children inside, the distant toll of the church bell marking the hour. Nothing seemed different, yet her thoughts refused to quiet.
Asoka turned back into the yard and gathered the empty baskets she had left near the door. One by one, she brought them inside, setting them neatly against the wall. She had checked the shop again, counting what remained on the shelves, her movements careful and unhurried. It was something her father had always done at day's end, and she had kept the habit, even after his passing.
She washed at the basin, the water cool against her hands and face, then changed into a simple dress meant for the evening. The act itself was ordinary, but she performed it with a kind of attention, as though holding on to these small routines might keep her thoughts from drifting too far.
Before lighting the lamp, Asoka stepped outside once more. The sky had deepened, the colors fading into blue and gray. She breathed in the scent of earth and grain, of animals settling for the night. This was the life she knew, the one she had worked hard to maintain. Still, the feeling from earlier returned, quiet but persistent.
She closed the door gently behind her, unaware that this sense of unease would not leave her so easily, or that the calm of the evening was only a pause—nothing more.