= Amara =
“The street looks quieter today,” Caryl observed as she slipped into step beside me, adjusting the satchel slung across her shoulder. The worn leather strap gave a soft creak as she tugged it higher, settling it more comfortably against her hip. “That baker must finally be sleeping.”
I followed her gaze down the narrow stretch of road. The market street—usually bursting with shouts, clattering carts, and the smell of warm bread—still lingered in a half-awake state. Shutters were only partially drawn, as if the buildings themselves were reluctant to greet the morning. A thin veil of mist clung stubbornly to the cobblestones, blurring the edges of doorways and signboards.
A faint smile curved my lips.
“Or,” I said lightly, “he ran out of flour again.”
Caryl’s laughter rang out
