The Market’s Quiet Moments

In a small town square, the Saturday market was winding down. Where there had been crowds and chatter, only a few stalls remained. A flute player sat in the shade, offering soft notes to no one in particular. The scent of ripe peaches hung in the air.

I wandered among the final baskets of herbs, handmade soaps, and half-eaten pastries. The noise had faded, leaving only the warmth of the afternoon and the hum of bees drawn to sweetness.

At one stall, an old woman offered me a small bunch of lavender. “Not to buy,” she said. “Just to hold.”

I took it, surprised by the weightless calm it brought. “Why?” I asked.

“To remind you,” she smiled, “that even in the midst of activity, stillness is possible. The heart-mind doesn’t live only in the mountains.”

That evening, I placed the lavender on the windowsill of my room. Its scent lingered, quiet and persistent, long after the sun had set.