The bazaar was a mess of voices, feathers, dust, and sun-bleached tarpaulin flapping like broken sails. Here, amidst pigeons and the metallic clink of old coins, Sergey's stall stood at the edge of it all: a stubborn table of crooked legs and flaking paint, crowned with red and gold onions piled into slouching pyramids. He sat atop an upturned crate, squinting beneath the visor of a cap that had once belonged to his father, bracing for the next haggler to insult both his prices and his parentage. She came at the hour when the shadows began to shift: a woman in black, her habit catching the light like oilskin. A nun, unusual, but not unheard of. She approached his stall with quiet purpose, eyes scanning his products. “These are bruised,” she said, selecting one and turning it over. “They're onions,” Sergey replied, arms crossed. “You want silk, try the rug seller.” “They're soft,” she continued, ignoring his tone. “Not a single one firm.” She prodded another, then another. “I'll take three,” she said at last, withdrawing a purse from the folds of her coat. “But I'll pay seven.” “They're ten.” She met his gaze squarely. “They're seven.” He sighed, muttering curses under his breath, and began packing three of the least disfigured into a paper bag. At that moment, a boy approached, no older than nine, in a shirt too thin for spring and shoes that no longer deserved the name. He hovered near the edge of the stall, silent as a shadow, his eyes wide and dark. He didn't speak. Just looked; not at them, but at the onions. Sergey noticed him and barked, “Go on, move along. This isn't a museum.” The boy didn't move. His hands stayed in his pockets, but his gaze remained fixed on the lowest row of bulbs, as though memorising their shapes. The nun turned slightly, catching sight of him. “He's not harming anything,” she said mildly. “He's not buying anything either.” “Not everyone who comes to a market has coins.” “Then they shouldn't come.” The nun said nothing at first. Instead, she knelt — slowly, gracefully — and drew a small cloth sack from the sleeve of her coat. “How much for one more?” she asked. He raised a brow. “He's not yours.” “No,” she said. “But someone ought to feed him.” Sergey hesitated. He'd heard this tone before: soft, saintly, the kind that always expected an exception. “One more's another three.” She clicked her tongue in mock indignation. “Even bruised?” “Especially bruised.” She shook her head and counted out the coins anyway, pressing them into his palm with a smirk. While he wrapped the final onion, she turned to the boy and offered the paper bag. “There,” she said. “Don't drop them. They're expensive, apparently.” He reached out with trembling hands, clutching the parcel like it might vanish. He looked once at Sergey, once at her, and gave a barely audible “thank you.” But something else had happened, something Sergey didn't notice until they were both gone. The nun had lingered just long enough to distract him, asking about his stall, complimenting his scales, inquiring about the weather. Only when he sat back down did he realize what had happened. One of the bags near the edge was lighter — the one that hadn't yet sold — he counted the onions inside. Plenty missing. He stared for a long moment at the empty air where she'd stood. The boy was already gone. The bag of onions in his hand felt heavier now. He could report her. But to whom? And for what? Theft of a bulb? He scratched his chin. “Trickster nun,” he muttered, not without admiration. He reached into the crate and pulled out the best-looking onion of the lot. He set it aside on a clean napkin, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the pigeons above, to the coins clinking down the stalls, and to the faint echo of her voice saying, “They're seven.” He didn't know if she'd return. But the onion on the napkin stayed untouched until dusk — a small, firm hope beneath the pigeons and dust.