“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” THEY WARNED YOU. YOU BOUGHT HIM ANYWAY… AND THAT NIGHT YOU LEARNED WHY MEN WOULD RATHER BURN THEIR SILVER THAN KEEP HIM CLOSE.

The line of chained men stands under the sun as if the sun itself is part of the punishment. Their feet are bare in the dust, their shoulders shiny with sweat, their eyes trained on nothing and everything. You try not to look too long, because looking too long turns the scene into something you can’t excuse. Your mind tells you the same lie the town tells itself: this is how things are, this is how the harvest happens, this is how order survives. But your stomach rejects the lie, tightens, reminds you that being used to something doesn’t make it right. You walk slowly, your shoes tapping the stone, your veil shading your gaze so no one can read what you feel. You pass one man and then another, each one inspected like a mule, priced like a tool. Some buyers laugh, some bargain, some stand with a bored expression that scares you most. Then you reach the last man in the line, and your steps stop without permission.