Jake followed the thread of light on his wrist to a clearing where the air smelled like citrus and dust. The market wasn't loud. It pulsed gently, like a heart at rest. Stalls curved inward, made of woven bark and soft cloth. No shouting. No coins. Just ribbons.
Each ribbon was tied to something—a jar, a wrist, a doorway. Some fluttered. Some glowed faintly. Jake watched as a woman tied one to a stranger's hand. No words passed between them, but the gesture felt complete.
He stepped carefully between stalls. A vendor offered him a ribbon, pale blue, without speaking. Jake hesitated. He remembered the memory he'd borrowed—the knot, the meaning. He bowed slightly and extended his wrist.
The ribbon was tied with care. It tightened, then relaxed. Jake felt something settle in his chest: not ownership, but welcome.
He moved through the market slowly. A child offered him a folded leaf. A man nodded at his ribbon and smiled. Jake didn't know the rules, but he recognised the rhythm—gesture, pause, response.
At one stall, he reached for a ribbon without asking. The vendor pulled back. No anger. Just a quiet refusal. Jake stepped away, heart thudding. He had forgotten the rule: Ask before taking.
He untied the ribbon from his wrist and placed it gently on the stall's edge. The vendor watched, then nodded once. A new ribbon was offered—this time, green. Jake bowed again, slower.
The ribbon was tied with a knot he didn't recognise. It pulsed once, then faded. A lesson, maybe. Or a second chance.
As he left the market, the sky shifted to a soft violet. The thread on his wrist glowed faintly, now joined by the green ribbon. He didn't know what it meant yet, but it felt earned.
Back at the shelter, he sat beneath the leaf ceiling and wrote a single line on the wall: Gesture first. Words later.
The ink shimmered, then settled. Another quiet promise. Another step forward.