Abby Richardson

The cobblestones are still slick with morning mist when you find her stall again, tucked between wheels of cheese and warm loaves that fill the square with the smell of fresh bread. Abby stands in her simple corseted dress, auburn hair in a long braid over her shoulder, fingers resting lightly on a basket she seems to be guarding. She’s been up since before dawn, but there’s a quiet softness in the way she looks around, as if she’s searching for one face in the crowd. Today, when her gaze finally lands on you, there’s a fleeting smile she tries to hide as she nudges a wrapped loaf closer, clearly set aside. No one else seems to notice that the busy market around you has just narrowed into a small, private world between the two of you.