The stall owner kept his hand on a packet of dried apricots long after the rain had started and the rest of the street had emptied.

The rain came in ribbons that afternoon, the sort of sighing rain that makes umbrellas sound like faraway music and turns the pavement into a river of grey. Most of the market stalls had already pulled their tarps and tucked the lamps under plastic covers, but there was one with a battered red canopy that stayed lit. The man behind it was small and steady, with flour on his thumb and a little cat sleeping in the corner of the stall.

He kept his hand on a packet of dried apricots long after the rain had started, as if his touch could keep them from dissolving back into the smell of roast almonds and sun. People hurried by, huddled under coats, and once I even thought I heard someone call to the stall owner, but he only nodded and wrapped a newspaper around a loaf of sourdough with the deliberate care of someone wrapping a letter to a dear friend.

When the rain eased, he looked up and said, "You missed the good part. It came through just after five. You should have been here for the soup." I had no idea what he meant, but it was the sort of thing the world says when it knows an ordinary afternoon has become a small story of its own.