The Fair was far livelier than I had expected.
That normality was the strangest part.
From the road, the lanterns and distant movement had made it seem mysterious, almost unreal. Yet now that I stood among the stalls and strangers, weaving through the crowds beneath the winter sky, it felt remarkably ordinary.
Ordinary
I had not expected that
People talked.
People ate.
People argued over prices.
The sounds rose and fell in a steady rhythm, blending into a constant murmur that followed us wherever we went.
Cold air drifted through the market carrying a mixture of scents. Cooked food. Incense. Lantern oil. Warm bread. Roasted meat.
Beneath all of it lingered another smell.
Something unfamiliar.
Not unpleasant.
Just difficult to place.
I glanced toward Mr. Yasui.
He walked ahead with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, moving with the confidence of someone who had walked these paths many times before. He barely looked around. He already knew where everything was.
I quickened my pace to keep up.
The deeper we moved into the Fair, the more details revealed themselves. Lanterns hung from ropes stretched overhead. Stalls lined the pathways beneath them. Voices blended together until they became a living backdrop to everything else.
Every face seemed occupied with its own business.
No one appeared particularly interested in anyone else.
That alone eased some of the tension in my chest.
If everyone here was focused on their own affairs, perhaps I could simply do the same.
Eventually we stopped beside a table positioned along one of the main paths.
A man sat behind it.
His coat was an unusual color, somewhere between dark red, brown, and weathered wood. A lantern shaped like a small house rested on the table before him. Light shone through dozens of tiny perforations cut into its metal walls, scattering little dots across the surface.
There was also a book.
A hat.
Nothing else.
Mr. Yasui exchanged a few quiet words with him.
The man looked up.
Our eyes met briefly.
I found myself looking back at the lantern instead.
The flame inside flickered softly.
Without a word, he opened the book and handed me a pen.
I blinked, then wrote my name.
When I finished, he nodded toward a wooden crate beside the table.
"Choose."
That was all he said.
I crouched and reached inside.
My fingers brushed against metal.
When I pulled my hand back out, I was holding a gold-colored coin.
It felt heavier than expected.
Not dramatically so.
Just enough to notice.
I turned it over.
A camel occupied one side.
A whale occupied the other.
I looked toward Mr. Yasui.
"An identification of sorts."
That was his entire explanation.
I bowed slightly toward the seated man.
He inclined his head in return.
The exchange appeared complete.
Back into the cart we went.
As we continued deeper into the Fair, my fingers kept finding the coin in my pocket. I touched it absentmindedly, checking that it was still there.
The camel.
The whale.
"Present it at the stall allocation table," Mr. Yasui said. "It is yours now."
I glanced at him.
He was watching the road ahead.
For the moment, I decided not to ask any more questions.
After another stretch of travel through the market, the cart finally stopped beside an empty stall.
It sat among several others arranged in neat rows.
The structure was simple.
A roof.
A counter.
Enough space behind it to store goods.
Mr. Yasui climbed down first.
"This is a standard stall."
He tapped one of the support beams.
"Big enough to accommodate a cart's worth of product."
His smile widened slightly.
"Conveniently, that's exactly what we have."
I climbed down beside him.
Together we unloaded the radishes.
Crate after crate.
The familiar weight settled comfortably into my hands.
By the time we finished, the stall looked properly stocked. Pale roots marked with thin red streaks sat arranged in neat rows across the counter.
Mr. Yasui adjusted one.
Then another.
Satisfied, he stepped back.
"Buyers don't negotiate."
I looked up.
"Name your price and hold it."
He brushed dirt from his gloves.
"If they walk away, they weren't buyers."
A brief pause.
"If they come back, they were."
That sounded absurd.
Perhaps my expression showed it.
He chuckled.
"That isn't permission to set absurd prices."
I nodded.
That made slightly more sense.
"You can rent a deposit box if you don't want to carry everything home."
I looked up immediately.
"How?"
"Speak with the Lamplighters."
"The who?"
He pointed toward a man walking between the stalls.
The coat matched the one worn by the registrar.
A lantern swung gently from his hand.
"The man from before."
I followed the figure with my eyes.
"The lantern helps identify them?"
"Partly."
Mr. Yasui pointed toward the man's chest.
"There's also a pin."
I squinted.
Sure enough.
A small emblem.
Camel and whale.
The same design as my coin.
I filed the information away.
"If you don't want to store goods, they'll also buy excess inventory."
"At market value?"
He laughed.
"No."
I should have expected that.
"They buy what they need."
A cigarette appeared between his fingers.
A moment later smoke drifted upward.
"They pay fairly for that need."
He took another drag.
"Don't try to convince them to need more."
I nodded.
That seemed useful to remember.
Another question formed.
Mr. Yasui immediately pointed the cigarette at me.
"Don't ask the Lamplighters questions."
I closed my mouth.
He smirked.
For a moment he examined the stall.
Then he looked at me.
"You'll manage."
And just like that, he turned and left.
The crowd swallowed him surprisingly quickly.
One moment he was visible.
The next he wasn't.
I stared after him for several seconds before looking around.
The stall.
The radishes.
The Fair.
I was alone.
My heart beat a little faster.
Not entirely from fear.
There was excitement mixed in there too.
A strange sort of thrill.
I sat down behind the counter.
Adjusted one of the radishes.
And waited.
The market continued moving around me.
A man purchased a vase from a nearby stall.
Someone argued over cloth.
A woman carried a basket of pastries through the crowd.
Everything seemed absurdly normal.
I exhaled.
"At least it isn't mafia business."
My breath fogged in front of me.
A few minutes later my first customer arrived.
He examined the display, pointed at a single radish, and waited.
I checked the price board, wrapped the vegetable, and handed it over.
Money changed hands.
Simple.
Efficient.
No questions.
No curiosity.
The customer carried two of the strange crops away as casually as someone buying potatoes.
I looked down at the payment.
A coin.
Not yen.
My eyes followed the man as he disappeared into the crowd.
"Did I just get scammed?"
The thought barely had time to settle before another customer arrived.
A woman wearing a broad hat.
"Two radishes, please."
I handed them over.
She checked her purse and placed payment on the counter.
"Twenty yen."
I accepted it.
My gaze shifted between the yen and the foreign coin from before.
The second coin caught my attention.
A marking.
£2.
Interesting.
A third customer arrived.
He studied two radish, placed another £2 coin on the counter, nodded, and left.
No questions.
No discussion.
No hesitation.
As the night progressed, a pattern emerged.
People already knew what they were buying.
The price board handled most of the conversation.
Customers arrived.
Selected what they wanted.
Paid.
Left.
Again and again.
Eventually I found myself wondering whether twenty yen and two pounds represented roughly the same value.
The transactions certainly suggested it.
The realization brought a strange sort of comfort.
These crops already had a market.
I wasn't introducing anything new.
People came here looking for them.
I simply happened to be supplying them.
That was reassuring.
And slightly unsettling.
Hours passed.
The crowd shifted.
Some stalls grew busier.
Others quieter.
Between customers I observed.
The Fair appeared roughly circular.
Three rings, perhaps more.
My stall occupied the outermost section.
Beyond us, toward the center, the atmosphere changed.
I couldn't see everything.
But the feeling was different.
More controlled.
More deliberate.
Nearby, one man sold intricate carvings.
Another sold jewelry.
Someone offered food.
I recognized roasted squid in one customer's hands, finally solving that particular mystery.
Elsewhere, a stall displayed candles that appeared ordinary at first glance. Yet customers handled them carefully enough that I doubted they were ordinary at all.
Farther away stood a man who didn't seem to sell anything.
People brought items to him instead.
He inspected them.
Sometimes he wrote notes.
Sometimes he shook his head.
An appraiser, most likely.
I watched for a while before returning to my own work.
Eventually my gaze landed on another produce stall.
Fruit.
Pears.
Several baskets of them.
A fellow farmer.
Our eyes met.
He nodded.
I nodded back.
That was all.
Yet somehow it felt reassuring.
Like spotting another fisherman while drifting at sea.
The night deepened.
Customers continued coming and going.
The coffee Mr. Yasui had given me gradually cooled.
I drank it anyway.
Then I noticed them.
Three figures.
They stood where the outer ring met the inner sections.
Not shopping.
Not selling.
Not talking.
Simply standing.
Watching.
Comfortably.
Patiently.
Like people who had attended countless Fairs and long ago found their preferred place within them.
No one approached them.
Yet no one avoided them either.
They simply existed outside the flow of transactions.
I watched longer than was probably polite.
None of them reacted.
A sound elsewhere drew my attention.
When I looked back—
They were gone.
I blinked.
Nothing remained.
The spaces they had occupied now stood empty.
Eventually darkness began surrendering to dawn.
The crowd thinned.
The lanterns seemed less bright.
People started packing away their goods.
I checked my inventory.
Three radishes remained.
Not bad.
A figure approached.
A Lamplighter.
The lantern hanging from his hand swayed gently.
He examined the remaining stock.
"Sixteen yen."
I nodded.
Sold.
Just like that, the last of my inventory disappeared.
The Lamplighter moved on toward the next stall.
I leaned back in my chair.
The numbers ran through my head.
Roughly two hundred and twenty-four yen in profit.
Not counting the foreign currency.
Far better than I had expected.
I began packing up.
Then remembered the deposit box.
It didn't take long to find the same Lamplighter from earlier.
I explained what I wanted.
He nodded and handed me a form.
Simple.
Efficient.
A name.
A trade category.
A few details.
When it asked for a moniker, I paused briefly before writing:
Sada.
The process concluded moments later.
The Lamplighter handed me a notice.
I held it up to the morning light.
Next Fair.
Road.
Region.
Date window.
Information for the future.
I folded it carefully and slipped it into my pocket.
Now I possessed three things.
The profit.
The token.
The notice.
When I reached the carts, Mr. Yasui was already waiting.
He glanced over my records.
Nodded.
"Forty-sixty split."
A brief pause while he calculated.
"Your share comes to seventy-eight yen."
He counted it out.
"And one pound twelve shillings."
He handed both across.
I looked at the yen.
Then the pound coins.
"The pounds are hard currency."
He climbed onto the cart.
"Worth more outside this market than inside it."
A brief pause.
"Keep that in mind."
Then, after a brief pause:
"Next time you'll know the Fair better."
He said it as though there would naturally be a next time.
Perhaps there would.
I looked back one last time.
Lanterns were being extinguished from the outer ring inward.
Dawn spread across the horizon.
The Fair seemed to fold itself away with practiced efficiency.
Then we were back on the road.
Cold wind.
Morning light.
Cart wheels turning steadily beneath us.
The return journey was quiet.
Mr. Yasui said little.
So did I.
Instead I thought.
About the traders.
The buyers.
The appraiser.
The other farmer.
The strange professionalism of the entire place.
Knowledge everywhere.
Years of experience hidden behind ordinary conversations.
At some point exhaustion finally caught me.
I fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, Mr. Yasui was shaking my shoulder.
"We're here."
I blinked.
Town.
Morning.
Home.
I thanked him and climbed down.
The walk to the house felt shorter than usual.
When I reached the door, I hesitated briefly before knocking.
A moment later it opened.
Yu stood there.
"I am back."
A small smile appeared.
Warm.
Relieved.
"Welcome home."
Questions existed.
I could see them.
But she pushed them aside.
Home first.
Questions later.
I sat down while she prepared breakfast.
Steam rose from tea.
The familiar smell of food filled the room.
Only after she sat opposite me did I place the money on the table.
I explained everything.
The sales.
The Fair.
The amount.
She grew very quiet.
Then reached for paper.
Numbers appeared beneath her brush.
Calculations.
Revisions.
New estimates.
I watched.
Eventually she turned the paper toward me.
I read it.
Looked up.
Then looked back down.
The timeline had changed again.
Not two months.
Not the estimate from before.
Something more concrete.
Something with an actual date attached to it.
Neither of us spoke.
The silence stretched comfortably between us.
Then she folded the paper and placed it face down on the table.
Not away.
Just face down.
As though staring directly at hope might somehow scare it off.
I took a sip of tea and turned toward the window.
Winter sunlight spilled through the glass.
Soft.
Pale.
Gentle.
Near the doorway, my coat still hung where I had left it.
Inside its pocket rested the coin marked with a camel and a whale.