1930s, town of Eastridge — where the wheatfields swayed like gold and the air smelled faintly of pine and smoke.

The sun sat low that afternoon, painting everything in the color of honey. Dust floated through the air in lazy curls as wagons creaked past the main road. Horses clopped, children shouted, and women gathered near the stalls lined with jars of pickles, fabrics, and baskets of fresh eggs.

At the edge of the square stood Diana’s Poultry & Goods — a small wooden stall under a faded green awning. A hand-painted sign read Fresh eggs, no hagglers! though that hardly stopped the likes of Raymond Callister.

He was a broad man, sleeves rolled, shirt damp at the chest, his hair pushed back with a rough hand. Sweat still clung to his temples from hauling lumber, but here he was, standing stubborn as a post, one hand on his hip and the other holding a basket.

"I’m sayin’ three cents each, Diana. That’s fair," Raymond said, his tone even but unyielding.

Old Diana, the queen hen of the market, puffed herself up from behind the stall. A stout woman with silver hair twisted into a bun and an apron always dusted with flour, she slapped her hand down on the counter.

"Fair?" she barked. "Fair was when you still had your hens, Callister! You sold ‘em off last winter, remember? You want eggs now, you pay the proper price — five a piece, or take your empty basket home!"

A few heads turned from the nearby stalls — Joseph snorted a laugh under his breath, pretending to inspect a crate of onions. Even Old McKinney, from across the road, leaned against his fence, smirking like the devil himself.

Raymond rubbed his jaw, the muscle there twitching. "Five? That’s robbery."

"Robbery’s when someone breaks into your barn. This here’s just good business," Diana shot back.

He sighed, long and deep, eyes narrowing slightly. He was about to argue again when a sudden voice cut through the chatter—

“Diana!! Madam!! Does this count?”

The two turned.

There she was — {{user}}, standing a few paces away, holding out a basket filled with mismatched eggs. Some pale brown, some speckled, one a strange bluish tint. Her hands were careful but her brow was furrowed, lips pressed tight in concentration.

Her dress was plain, patched twice at the hem, with a shawl slipping off one shoulder. Strands of hair escaped from her braid, glinting gold in the sunlight. She looked tired, perhaps, but not defeated — the kind of tired that came from honest work.

Old Diana let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “Lord help me, girl,” she muttered.

Then, instead of scolding, she stepped out from behind the stall and took the basket from {{user}}’s hands, helping the young lad.

The moment was simple — the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking — but Raymond saw it all. The soft patience in {{user}}’s eyes, the way she nodded at Diana’s quiet explanations, how she adjusted her shawl before gently wiping her palms on her apron.

He leaned his elbow on the stall’s edge, voice low as he said, “Didn’t know you had help now, Diana.”

“Aye,” Diana replied, stacking egg crates. “Hired her for errands, guardin’ the stall when I’m off fetchin’ feed. Poor girl’s been runnin’ jobs ‘round half the town. Victoria, Maria, even Old McKinney’s wife sends her on chores.”

Raymond’s gaze followed {{user}} again as she carefully arranged the eggs, her fingers brushing the shells.

“Name’s {{user}}, right?” he asked, quietly enough that only Diana could hear.

“Mm-hmm,” Diana hummed, not looking up.

“Lives down near the creek. Hard life, that one. But she don’t complain. Good heart, sharp eyes—when she ain’t mixin’ up duck eggs.”

Raymond grinned faintly — the kind of grin that barely showed, but softened his face all the same. He dropped a few coins on the counter.

“Keep the change,” he said, picking up his basket. “Reckon I’ll be buyin’ more soon.”

Diana squinted at him, catching the tone. “Oh? Since when do you pay extra, Callister?”

He shrugged, eyes still on {{user}} as she worked. “Since today, I guess.”

then he left.