fate favours those prepared in heart to accept it
A century ago, in the oldest city still inhabited, in a ritual marking end of the work week, farmers still brought fare to market.
Across long wooden tables they slid fruits of the earth, drew back tools forged of steel and sweat, and sometimes passed between them unmonitored deals.
By mid-morning Luco’s stall was empty. It was always empty by day’s end, but seldom before noon. A day and a night to make their own choices.
A pocket of payment and a day and the night to spend it. The choice of moment was just that—momentous—and Luco chose this moment to play the long tables.
Seated, face down and arms forward, he pushed the small burlap of earnings across the table. There he shared the whisper song to seal the deal.
“I dreamed of being a galaxy, orders of magnitude away. To my surprise, I realize the stars are hours we count each day.”
Sitting up, his fingers unfurled a spokeshave with a stone blade. And with it, the trade of his monger’s stall for a place in the tower among the archers.
