The day began like any other, with the sun just cresting the hills and the village stirring to life. Asoka carried a basket of eggs from the henhouse, stepping carefully around the puddles left from last night's rain. She had barely started when one of the hens decided to make a run for it, squawking furiously and darting straight under her skirt. She stumbled, flailed, and nearly fell flat on her face, eggs tumbling to the ground like tiny ovals of misfortune.
"Miserable birds," she muttered, brushing straw from her hair. The hens paid her no mind, returning to their pecking, as if mocking her clumsiness. Even in her small farmyard, work never let her rest for long. Watering the garden, tending the sheep, checking on the few cows—they all demanded attention, and Asoka did her best to keep them in line. Still, the rhythm of the chores offered her a quiet comfort, a feeling that she could manage something, at least for today.
Once her farm duties were done, she set out for the market square. She carried a small pouch of vegetables and herbs to sell, her basket swinging lightly at her side. The path wound through the edges of the settlement, past the stone houses with their painted shutters, and beyond the churchyard, where the bell had just begun tolling for morning prayers.
Halfway there, she nearly ran into a girl who was juggling a stack of cloths from a traveling merchant's cart. The girl tipped sideways, sending a bundle of linens tumbling into the mud, and let out a startled squeal.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" Asoka said quickly, bending to help gather the cloth. The girl laughed, brushing mud off her skirts. "Don't worry, I'm clumsier than the chickens I see back there."
They exchanged names quickly; the girl was called Eliza, traveling to the market with her family's goods. There was something instantly easy about her laugh, the way she didn't seem to notice that Asoka's hands were covered in straw and mud, or that her hair stuck out at odd angles from a morning struggle with the hens.
Asoka found herself laughing too, an almost forbidden sound. She had grown used to the quiet routine of her shop and farm, the serious faces of villagers and the steady weight of expectations. But Eliza's humor was different—carefree, teasing without being cruel, and bright enough to make Asoka forget the stiffness of her own shoulders.
By the time they reached the market, their baskets balanced carefully, the mishaps continued. Eliza tripped over a loose cobblestone, sending a small stack of apples rolling down the path. Asoka dived, grabbing one before it struck a merchant's boot. Both girls ended up laughing so hard they drew curious glances from passersby.
"I swear," Eliza said, picking up the last apple, "the market seems determined to test us today."
Asoka nodded, brushing dirt from her hands. "It's a good thing we are quick on our feet," she replied, thinking it remarkable how easy it was to talk to this girl. They began helping each other set up their wares, chatting about the different kinds of vegetables, herbs, and fabrics. Eliza seemed to know every merchant by sight, calling out greetings and teasing a fat goat tethered near the bakery stall.
"What a life," Asoka thought, "to know so many faces and not be watched all the time by elders and rules."
As they arranged their goods, they noticed a commotion near the fountain at the center of the square. A cart had tipped over, spilling sacks of grain everywhere, and a pair of merchants shouted at each other while trying to gather the scattered piles. Eliza grinned mischievously.
"Race you to see who can grab the first sack!" she whispered. Before Asoka could protest, Eliza dashed forward, and she found herself laughing as she followed, stepping on a stray cobblestone and sliding slightly, her basket tilting dangerously. Luckily, she caught it before anything spilled.
"Careful!" Eliza shouted, doubling over in laughter. "You look like a very serious chicken, running after a sack of grain!"
Asoka could not help herself; she laughed, the sound mingling with the cries of merchants and the clatter of overturned carts. For the first time in years, she felt the stiffness of her routine soften, replaced by a warmth she could not name.
Once the market settled, they wandered together, exchanging stories. Eliza spoke of her family, of distant relatives who lived near the river towns, and of the long journeys she had made on foot and cart. Asoka listened, fascinated, imagining herself traveling in the way Eliza described: past forests, over hills, through towns that smelled of smoke, bread, and people who spoke in words she had never heard.
"You could travel too," Eliza said suddenly, catching Asoka's hesitant gaze. "There's a whole world beyond these hills."
Asoka swallowed. She wanted to believe her, yet a small knot of caution tugged at her stomach. The stories she had heard, the rumors of missing villagers, of women taken away, returned unbidden. Still, the thought was intoxicating. The possibility of moving through a world larger than this one made her pulse quicken.
They finished their errands together, helping with deliveries and chatting with merchants, laughing at small slips and mistakes. By the time Asoka returned home, her basket lighter and her mind buzzing, she realized she had spent hours without noticing the sun's climb or the aching of her shoulders.