The Receding Din

The market-worn trader braced for the familiar dance, the back-and-forth of the haggle that was as much a part of the market as the scent of spices and the cacophony of a hundred competing voices.

But the merchant, his face still holding the echo of a quiet place, simply named a price. A single, quiet number that hung in the air, a note of stillness in the market’s symphony of noise.

The trader, his well-practiced arguments dying on his lips, found himself nodding. He watched the merchant walk away, and instead of tallying his unexpected gain, found himself pausing. For one breath, the din of the market receded, and he didn’t understand why, but a small quiet had been passed to him.