Chapter 8 - The Remnants of the Storm
An hour later, the rain had settled into a steady, rhythmic cadence against the cobblestones. The market was quiet now. The federal law enforcement vehicles had cleared the square, taking Sterling and his associates into custody.
Martha Gable stood at her kiosk, her worn green apron replaced by a clean wool coat. The wooden shutters of her stall were locked down securely for the night.
In her handbag, wrapped in a soft velvet cloth, was the cashier's check and the official lease deed guaranteeing her market stall for the rest of her life.
She walked slowly toward the stone fountain in the center of the square—the spot where the young man in the torn grey jacket used to sit every afternoon, eating his warm food in silence.
Sitting on the damp edge of the stone fountain was a small white paper box.
Martha walked over, her boots making soft splashing sounds in the puddles. She picked up the box. It was warm to the touch. Inside lay a single, perfectly baked loaf of braided sourdough bread, accompanied by a small, hand-written note on heavy cream cardstock.
To Mrs. Gable,
Bread given in kindness carries no ledger. But justice always collects its interest.
Thank you for the warm potatoes.
May you like
— J.
Martha held the note against her chest, a soft, tearful smile gracing her face as she looked up at the clearing night sky. The clouds were parting, revealing a brilliant field of cold, bright stars above the ancient roofs of the market.
