Aurora Snowmist crossed the square toward the old gate, three years of silence tucked under her coat. For three years she had pictured a moonlit teahouse with a low ceiling, many candles, and a wide window seat for shy people like her. Today she would finally say it out loud. The market stall woman talked to everyone. One small introduction, and the door would crack open. But as Aurora drew close, she saw the trouble. The vendor cart had tipped, its wheel cracked clean through. Apples, jars, and small bright bundles rolled across the stones. The woman knelt beside the spill, hands full, voice sharp with panic. Behind her, the concrete display table sat half-empty, bottles tilted, ceramic bowls knocked sideways, a red cloth slipping toward the ground. Above them, the weathered awning flapped loose where someone had grabbed it for balance. Aurora opened her mouth. The woman didn't look up. "Not now, love. Please, not now." Aurora stepped back. The words she had practiced for three years stayed folded inside her coat. She would have to find another way in.