Market Morning with Adriana

The scent hit her first - warm bread, crushed herbs, ripe fruit kissed by the sun. Adriana stepped off the cobbled street and into the pulse of the farmer’s market, a woven basket swinging at her side. The stalls stretched like patchwork down the square, each draped in linen and shaded by canvas canopies. People milled about with straw hats and linen shirts, voices rising and falling like birdsong.

She loved coming here alone.

There was something sacred in wandering without a plan, letting the senses lead. A cluster of wildflowers caught her eye - sweet peas, foxglove, and Queen Anne’s lace tied in a bouquet with twine. She bought them from a woman whose hands smelled like soil and lavender, tucking the blooms carefully into her basket.

Next came the tomatoes - round and plump, still warm from the sun. The farmer, red-faced and smiling, offered her a taste. “Try this one. Grown just over the hill.”

It burst sweet and earthy on her tongue, and she smiled. “I’ll take four.”

Adriana moved on, stopping to run her fingers across piles of dusty carrots, emerald zucchinis, and crisp bunches of mint. She chatted easily with the stall owners - about the rain last week, about how the cherries were early this year, about her plans to bake something with the sourdough she’d just picked up from the baker on the corner.

By the time she reached the stand with the cherries - red and glistening like little rubies - her basket was full. She sampled one, the tart-sweet flavour bursting bright on her lips, and bought a paper bag’s worth. The vendor, an older man with sun-lined cheeks, winked and gave her a few extra.

She sat on a low stone bench at the edge of the square, beneath a canopy of flowering chestnut trees. The market moved gently around her - dogs wagging tails, children tugging at their parents’ hands, couples sharing bites of croissants. A violinist played something soft nearby, and for a moment, everything felt like a film - slowed down, golden, humming with simple joy.

Adriana took out a cherry, bit in, and closed her eyes.

She wasn’t lonely. She was alone, and it felt full. This was her kind of morning. A connection to place, to people, to the land that grew the food she cradled in her arms.

As she rose to leave, the weight of her basket was grounding. A beautiful kind of abundance - not just of things, but of moments.