Leander talked about the outdoor market everywhere he went. He described the tables arranged under the trees, the artists unpacking their work, the way sunlight would filter through leaves onto painted canvases and carved wood. People nodded. They smiled. They said it sounded wonderful. He made it sound real enough that he almost believed it himself. But then a young painter cornered him near one of the wooden benches along the tree-lined path. She had been listening, she said, and she wanted in. When could she reserve a table? Where exactly would the market be? Her eyes were bright with the same excitement he felt when he pictured the whole thing in his mind. Leander opened his mouth and found nothing there. He gestured vaguely at the canopy overhead, at the dirt path stretching between the trees, and said he was still working out the details. The painter's face shifted. Not angry, just confused. She thanked him anyway and walked off. He sat down on the bench and stared at the empty path where vendors weren't standing. The painter came back an hour later. She brought a canvas on an easel. The spray-painted bonsai tree looked like it was growing right off the frame, all twisted roots and bright leaves against a sunset sky. She set it up twenty feet down the path and turned to him. This is what I mean, she said. This path is perfect. The benches are already here. People walk through every day. When do we start? Leander stared at the painting and felt his chest tighten. He had no permit. He had no date. He had nothing but the same speech he'd been giving for weeks. The painter was waiting. The path was waiting. He realized that talking about the market had stopped being enough the moment someone believed him. She pressed something into his hands. A spray can, decorated with leaves and stars that seemed to shift in the light. I made it for the first market day, she said. But I need to know when that is. Leander turned the can over in his palms. The metal was cool and smooth. He could see his reflection warped across its surface. The painter stood there, patient, expecting an answer he didn't have. He opened his mouth to explain about permits and locations and all the reasons he hadn't started yet. But the words caught in his throat. She wasn't asking for excuses. She was asking for a date. He looked at the path, at her painting, at the can in his hands. Then he told her the truth: he didn't know. Her smile faded. She nodded once and took the can back. Call me when it's real, she said. Leander watched her pack up the easel and walk away. The dream was still safe in his head. But now he knew what it cost to keep it there.