Gentle Connections

I started noticing her every Tuesday morning at the farmer's market. She always bought

the same things. Sunflowers. Sourdough bread. Honey from the stand with the hand-painted

sign. I was there buying vegetables I told myself I'd actually cook this time.

We never spoke. Just existed in the same space, reaching for tomatoes, comparing apples.

Then one rainy October morning, I saw her sitting alone on a bench near the flower

stand, crying quietly into her scarf. The sunflowers in her bag were wilting

in the rain. I almost walked past. That's what you're supposed to do,

right? Give people their privacy. But something made me stop.