The Forest’s Quiet Market

She never asked the forest what its fruits were called. Names made people greedy. Instead, she learned each one by sound: the pear that hummed in rain, the red berry that clicked like tiny teeth, the pale mushroom that sighed when touched. At dusk, travellers came along the fern path with empty baskets. She filled them according to what their hearts could carry, then accepted no coin, only a promise to leave one beautiful thing growing.