The wooden wheels rumbled over the old stone pavement, the steady clip-clop of hooves as rhythmic as a hymn to the heavens. Sitting in the back of the weathered cart, I rested against the smooth, worn wood, my eyes drawn to the faraway horizon where the noon sun was beginning to tilt.
I came back, not in frantic escape, but in an unsettling stillness. The earlier unease had melted away, leaving only a faint echo, like a thread of a forgotten dream. My first trip to the black market, a place I had imagined as grim and fraught with danger, turned out to be far less terrifying than the rumors suggested.
Today marked my first-ever successful deal, a new beginning. But that happiness was soon dimmed by an obvious fact, Torbica, that exquisite wildflower, only blooms in certain seasons. The thought of growing it, of expanding my small venture, flickered in my mind. I imagined vast fields of Torbica, petals swaying in the cold wind, offering both beauty and steady profit. But like all dreams, it was quickly smothered by endless hurdles. How could I tame a wildflower when so little was understood about it?
Perhaps, for now, the solution was to continue my familiar herb-trading business, step by step, while persistently gathering whatever scraps of information I could find about Torbica. At the moment, that was the most feasible path forward.
The snowy fields stretched along both sides of the road, dotted with scattered spruce trees standing tall, a vision of perfect tranquility. My fingers absently clutched the rough cloth bag holding Torbica flowers that still carried a hint of mountain fragrance. Thanks to Amir's help, the small travel money got me an old cart ride home. The journey back felt much shorter now, no longer that tiring barefoot walk. Perhaps he was a good man, though his peculiar appearance left me wondering. But could one brief encounter in a single day truly reveal a person's entire character?
When the wheels finally halted near the village outskirts, the sun was already dipping westward. From dawn till now, time had slipped by dreamlike, five hours of barefoot walking reduced to merely two hours by cart. Afternoon sunlight filtered golden through the leaves, setting the ancient pine canopies aflame. I got off with a quiet thank-you to the driver. Each step crunched on dry pine needles, their rustling like the forest's whispered guidance leading me back to peace.
The wooden house loomed behind the tree line, keeper of countless tender memories. The door creaked open with its familiar groan, like a warm greeting from an old friend. Yet inside, an unnatural emptiness prevailed. Stillness permeated every corner, with only dust motes dancing in sunlight streaming through the windows.
"Kian?" My voice broke the silence but only echoes answered from the wooden walls. The quiet that followed felt thick and heavy.
Had the boy wandered out again? Gone off alone while I was away?
I wandered through the house, eyes scanning every familiar item. My fingers absently traced the wood's rough grain, searching for lingering traces of Kian's warmth. Then on the decaying wooden table in the parlor a small slip of paper entered my vision. Scrawled in clumsy handwriting: 'Gone to the library. Back soon.'
A quiet sigh of relief escaped me. At least I knew where the boy was. The library, no doubt lost in some book, as he often was, finding solace in worlds woven from words.
In the kitchen, I took out a clear glass jar from the wooden cupboard, poured in some cool water, and gently placed the gathered Torbica flowers inside, trying to keep their fragile blooms fresh. After that, I made a humble meal of carrots and potatoes. Our food stores could last another month, though honestly, the taste left much to be desired. But tomorrow I'd be heading back to the black market, Amir had made that perfectly clear.
As I was tidying up, I paused absentmindedly at Kian's doorway. The door stood slightly open, offering a glimpse of the usual scene, a wooden desk strewn with disorganized stacks of paper. A flicker of curiosity stirred within me, tinged with unease about intruding on the boy's privacy, yet I couldn't help but steal a glance. I sat at the desk, drew a deep breath, and let my gaze wander across the pages. His handwriting had grown much neater, no longer as awkward as it once was.
But what were these hasty scribbles, these rough sketches, these tangled lines of corrections? And the ideas, though still childishly phrased, the stories he was weaving held such raw creativity, such promise. But perhaps I shouldn't meddle too deeply in his little world.
Making the most of those fleeting sunbeams, I took my worn-out notebook and a pencil worn down to a stub. With a faded canvas bag slung over my shoulder, I locked the wooden door behind me and set off down the familiar brick road, winding toward the village school. My steps were featherlight on the well-worn path, weaving between trees tinged with frost. A soft wind whispered past, tousling my hair, laced with the scent of moist soil and the lingering warmth of noon. The school emerged in the distance, a humble little house with red clay tiles and plain wooden-framed windows. My heart fluttered with a deep, unspoken yearning. From afar, I could hear the steady rhythm of the teacher's voice, rising and falling like a melody I could only listen to in silence.
Hiding behind a large spruce tree nearby, its wide branches shielding me from sight, I peered through the classroom window, watching the students sit in neat rows, their eyes following the teacher's chalk as it danced across the blackboard. Tracing each letter, each number, I then bent over my notebook, copying them with slow, deliberate care.
Over time, I even carved out my own way of deciphering numbers and letters. Though it'd be nice if things could be a little kinder.
Truth be told, I've been doing this sneaky thing for a long time now. The pencil quivered on the coarse page, the first letter emerging lopsided and crude. I studied it, then frowned, it looked awful. A quiet disappointment welled up, but I inhaled deeply and smoothed my finger over the uneven stroke. It'll get better, I told myself. Persist and someday these scribbles won't be so hideous.
The fading light of dusk settled over our tiny house as I trudged home after the long day. Flickering lantern glow from distant dwellings cast frail ribbons of light along the dirt path. Drawing closer, I caught a sudden richness in the air, the crackling scent of freshly baked bread mingling with the honeyed warmth of pumpkin soup. The squeaking door announced my arrival to Kian, who beamed from the kitchen, soup-spoon in hand and mischief in his eyes.
"You're back!"
Gently, I placed my worn cloth bag on a wobbling chair. The kitchen greeted me with a warmth I'd never known here, the scent of good food, hearty and unfamiliar. But where would such indulgences come from? We could never afford things like this.
"Where did you get all this? We can't afford to splurge like this."
A mischievous laugh bubbled out of him as he poured hot soup into a wooden bowl, his eyes bright with triumph. "I bought it with my own money!"
"With what money?" I eased onto a chair, gaze drifting over the uncharacteristic feast, my chest tight with doubt.
He sat across from me, undeterred. "I've been working, remember? Just small things. Sweeping, weeding the landlord's garden past the village. I've got friends... It's nothing."
Was it truly possible, him earning even this much?
The spoon trembled slightly as I brought it to my lips. Golden pumpkin, earthy-sweet, bloomed warmth through me, a luxury long absent from our table.
"This is really good." I murmured, but the praise died when I glimpsed the shadow of a bruise along his jawline. His hand flew up as mine approached. "What's that from?"
"Just a stumble!" Too bright, his voice. He stared resolutely at his bowl, the steam painting his cheeks pink. "The soup's getting cold."
My fingers curled tight around my spoon. "Nothing else happened?"
"That hill near the library..." he offered hastily. "You know how slick the stones get...I wasn't watching my step." His lashes fluttered like trapped moths.
I let the silence stretch between us. "Whatever troubles you carry...this table should bear them too."
He pointed to the small bruise on his jaw, putting on an innocent face. "Besides, it's just a surface scratch. It'll heal quickly, don't worry too much." He took another sip of soup before looking up. "So...how's the Torbica deal going? Did you find the black market?"
"I did." I answered slowly. "Valka's guidance proved invaluable. I encountered a man called Amir who proposed an arrangement, eighty percent for us, twenty for him. He'll secure buyers while I manage distribution. Apparently Torbica really is as rare as they say, we could make good money."
I wavered, uncertain whether to describe how this was no mere marketplace but an entire subterranean network. The risks remained too nebulous to share yet.
Drawing breath, I continued. "There is one thing, transactions occur exclusively after dark. So I'll probably be coming home pretty late after each market run."
A quiet nod, his gaze anxious yet resolute. "I'll manage here. You needn't worry."
"On top of that, we'll still have to sell herbs early in the morning to earn extra, since Torbica is a seasonal flower so it's not always available."
"But... isn't traveling at night risky?" The unease in his voice was unmistakable.
"Don't worry, I've thought it through." I tore the bread in half and handed a piece to Kian. "We've always found a way to manage, haven't we?"
"...Yeah." He hesitated before speaking again. "...Then leave the morning herb sales to me. You should at least rest for the remaining half of the day in the empire, right?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I want to help, even if it's just a little..." The words tumbled out in a rush.
A soft smile tugged at my lips, feeling a weight lift from my chest. "Alright, then we'll do this together."