ELARA'S POV
Wednesday the farmers market was small and cold and exactly right.
We went at nine, before the city fully woke up, and the stalls were half the number of summer but staffed by people who seemed genuinely pleased to be there. The woman with the dahlias was gone for the season. The cheese stall was there, the bread stall, a man selling winter vegetables with the weathered patience of someone who understood that November commerce required different expectations than August.
Damien bought coffee from a cart near the entrance and handed me one without asking, the right order, the way I liked it.
We moved through the stalls slowly.
At the bread stall the woman who'd been selling there for three years looked at Damien and said, "You're the one who bought the whole sourdough last
