It was surreal, almost ridiculous against the backdrop of everyday grind.
Yet, something about his reaction felt off—not quite relief or gratitude, but a raw, desperate vulnerability that unsettled me.
I couldn’t place why.
This market, this stall, was my life.
I’d been running it since my twenties, long enough to know every familiar face, every quiet quarrel in the market.
Every slow day that made me question if the hard work was worth it.
There was always a weight of responsibility—family, debts, and survival—tied to this stall.
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