At ten the market still sounded like itself: crates, paper bags, a man counting change out loud. At eleven a little bell rang twice, and the spice aisle went hush. Cinnamon settled deeper into its jar. Vanilla stopped glittering quite so hard. People who had come for a pinch of something warm began to walk on the balls of their feet.
We asked at the stall. A girl with a paper cone of pepper said she had almost sneezed, then caught it in her sleeve and felt as if she had saved a nap. In the market notebook someone had written that the cloves prefer the shade of the awning, and that anyone who must sniff should do it the way you listen at a door.
The keeper posted a card no larger than a receipt: quiet hour, please do not wake the vanilla. The jars themselves are ordinary. They sit, they breathe a little, and they forgive a customer who tiptoes. A day later the same girl came back for cinnamon, whispered first, and left with a smile that smelled faintly of home.