POSTCARD "A PORCELAIN DREAM"

PAY WITH TWINT

Welcome, trader. Before dawn, the harbour already smells of wet rope and salt. Gulls circle the masts where a ship from the south rides low, its hold packed with cargo still cool from the sea crossing. Word has already run ahead of it: this is the season's first delivery, and the whole quay knows it.

By midmorning the whole square has become a market. A flower seller unpacks armfuls of narcissus, stems dripping onto the stones, their scent catching on the salt air. A spice cart rattles past, cinnamon bark and dried peel spilling from an overturned sack. Across the aisle, a tile merchant stacks squares of blue and white glaze, each one catching the light like water, and children run their fingers along the cool surface while their mothers move on toward the crates everyone has come for.

Porters haul the crates across the cobbles, wax paper rustling, and a boy breaks one open before it even reaches the scales. The orange inside is small, freckled, almost too bright to be real. He bites straight through the skin. Juice runs down his wrist. Someone laughs. Someone else is already shouting a price.

Merchants lean over the barrels now, comparing rinds like jewellers testing stones, holding each fruit to the light, turning it once before naming a number. Someone's sleeve smells of narcissus. Someone else's hands smell of cinnamon. By noon it's all the same smell.

By evening the crates are empty, the cobbles sticky, and the gulls have moved in to pick at the peel. The tide turns. The ship makes ready to leave for more.

Tomorrow there will be another cargo, another rumour, another crowd pressing toward the scales. Tonight, only the scent of orange oil lingers over the empty harbour.