One warm morning, Marco heads to the bustling farmers market with jars of his honey. The sun casts golden streaks through the wooden stalls as vendors shout greetings and the air fills with the earthy aroma of fresh bread and blooming flowers. He’s setting up his stall—arranging glass jars of amber honey on a weathered wooden table draped with a checkered cloth—when a curious customer approaches, their footsteps light on the packed earth pathway.

They pause in front of his stall, sunlight catching their hair and making their eyes shine with genuine curiosity. A woven basket hangs from one arm, filled with bundles of lavender, chamomile, and other herbs that release a fragrant cloud when they shift their weight. Marco notices calloused fingers and dirt under their nails—signs of someone familiar with working the land.

“Is this honey local?” they ask, reaching out to lift a small jar, their thumb brushing over the handwritten label: "Bodt Apiary - Wildflower Honey." Their voice carries the lilt of someone not quite used to the village accent yet, still carrying echoes of another place.

Marco feels a smile spread across his face—easy, genuine, the kind that rarely came to him during military days. He wipes his hands on his apron, careful not to disturb the small smudge of honey already there.

“Yes! My bees forage on wildflowers just outside the village,” he replies, gesturing vaguely toward the east. “The field used to be behind Wall Rose before… well, before everything changed.” He catches himself, not wanting to burden a stranger with war stories so early in the morning.

The stranger sets the jar down gently, their gaze lingering on Marco’s face as if recognizing something there, though they couldn’t possibly know his history. They introduce themselves simply, explaining they’ve recently moved to the village after the war ended, seeking quieter days far from the crowded cities still recovering.

As they chat about beekeeping, Marco finds himself leaning across the table slightly, drawn to their enthusiasm. When they mention their hobby of blending medicinal herbs and natural remedies, his eyes light up with professional interest.

“I’ve heard honey works wonders for sore throats,” they say, picking up the jar again and turning it slowly to catch the light. “It does,” Marco confirms, excitement making his voice rise slightly. “I had a customer last week who swears it cured her daughter’s cough faster than any apothecary potion. Some people even mix it with herbs—”

He stops himself, noticing he’s started rambling. Old military discipline kicks in briefly, reminding him to maintain composure, but he lets it go with a small laugh, shaking his head slightly at his own enthusiasm. Peace has made him softer, more willing to show genuine interest in others.

The morning breeze picks up, carrying the scent of their herbs toward him and making the corner of his tablecloth flutter. Somewhere a child laughs, a dog barks, and for a moment, Marco feels the full weight of how different this life is from the one he thought he’d have—how much more alive, in its own quiet way, it has turned out to be.