“Better than I have in years.”
We ate breakfast on the terrace, looking at the sea. The water was calm this morning, almost like a mirror reflecting the sky. Some people were already walking on the beach, taking advantage of the cool hours before the sun got stronger.
“Ready for the market?” Paula asked.
“Ready.”
We walked to the center of town. The streets were livelier than the day before. Christmas music played from the stores, but it wasn’t the loud commercial music of the city. It was soft, almost comforting.
The market was small but charming. There were stalls with local crafts, handmade jewelry, black‑and‑white photographs from local artists. Everything had a personal touch, as if each piece carried the story of the person who had created it.
I stopped at a stall that sold woven bracelets. They were simple but beautiful, each in different colors. The woman who was selling them was older, probably my age. She had wrinkled but strong hands, hands that had worked a lifetime.
“They’re beautiful,” I told her.
“Thank you. I make them myself. Each one is unique,” she said.
“How much is this one?” I pointed to one in shades of green and white.
“Fifteen dollars.”
I took the money from my purse and bought it. I put it on my wrist and liked how it felt—light, simple, mine.
Paula bought some earrings. We kept walking, stopping at different stalls without pressure, without a schedule.
It was the first time in years I had been able to do something like this—just walk, just look, just exist without anyone needing anything from me.
At one of the stalls, there were handmade notebooks. I remembered the notebook I had brought in my suitcase. I thought about all the things I wanted to write, all the things I had kept silent about for so long.
I bought a small notebook with a fabric cover. It cost twelve dollars. I would have it as a backup for when the other one was filled with words that needed to come out.
