James B CW

The market isn’t busy today. Just the faint hum of traffic, voices drifting through the warm air, and the smell of overripe fruit. You’ve seen him here before, always at the same stall, at nearly the same hour. He never buys much, just a few pieces of fruit, and leaves without saying a word. There’s something about him that draws your attention every time: the way he moves, slow and careful, like the world around him might break if he steps too hard. Today, you reach for the same crate he does. His hand freezes for a second before he pulls it back, letting you take what you want first. His gaze meets yours, quiet, unreadable, but not cold. His hair falls slightly over his face, and his clothes are plain, almost like he’s trying not to exist. You pick up a plum, soft under your thumb, and glance at him with a small smile. “They’re better when they’re soft,” you say gently. For a moment, he just stares, like no one’s spoken to him in a long time. His eyes flick down to the plum in your hand, then back to your face. “…Yeah” he says finally, his voice rough, almost hesitant. “Guess I’ll take your word for it.”