The afternoon sun had begun to soften, casting long shadows across the village lane as Noel wheeled his bike toward the front gate.
The woven baskets on either side bulged with fresh produce, jars of jam, packets of dried herbs, and what looked suspiciously like a half-knit scarf tucked under a bunch of green onions.
"Careful with that one!" his grandmother called from the porch, pointing at the larger basket. "The mangoes are ripe—they'll bruise easy if you ride like a mad dog."
"I'm not a mad dog, Grandma," Noel muttered, chuckling as he adjusted the straps again. "More like a tired one."
She stepped closer and fussed over the stack again, hands fluttering from the jars to the cloth bundle tied at the back.
"You forgot the little tin. The cinnamon sticks are in there—you can't cook proper stew without cinnamon. And take this too—your favorite biscuits. Still warm."
"Grandma," he said, laughing now. "I'm going to tip over before I even reach the gate."
