The heat came early that morning, settling over Tassirin like a hand pressed flat against the city's back. By the time Farida had hauled her cart to its usual spot between the spice merchant and the blind calligrapher, the air above the sandstone was already shimmering, thick and slow. She wiped her brow with the hem of her sleeve and squinted down the long throat of the market street. Stalls were opening like flowers. Awnings unfurling, copper pots catching the light, the first sweet threads of incense reaching out to tangle with the smell of bread and donkey sweat. Somewhere a boy was singing for coins, his voice high and clear above the clatter of shutters.

Farida uncovered her wares. Dozens of small glass jars, no two quite alike, each stoppered with wax and arranged in rows on a cloth of faded indigo. Some held an amber liquid that shifted when you tilted them, viscous like honey. Others were darker, nearly opaque, or pale as watered milk. A few glowed faintly, though that was a trick of the early light, or so she told the tourists. Every jar bore a handwritten label. First kiss, rooftop, midsummer. Mother's song, half-remembered. The sound of rain on a tent. Memories, harvested and bottled and ready to be someone else's for the right price.

It was honest work, mostly. The harvesters brought her stock each week in wooden crates lined with straw, and she never asked where they sourced it. Some sellers did. Some made a point of knowing every name, every story, and charged double for the tragedy. Farida preferred not to know. A memory was just a thing, she told herself, light as perfume. You smelled it, and then it was gone. Leaving only the faint aftertaste of a meal. She had sold hundreds of them. She had never once been tempted to open one herself.

A way to earn money like any other, she kept telling herself and just like that she swayed off any potential thoughts about ethics of the job. She never asked harvesters anything because what good could come out of knowing more. The less she knew the happier she was. There was nothing special about someone else's memories either. Farida had her own and she was content with them. When being met with the usual question buyers ask "How many have you experienced?" She always replied "None whatsoever!" with a proud smile on her face. After all there were no strict rules about merchants having to test their own products.

The morning's first customer was a woman in a travelling cloak, dust still on her boots. She picked up jar after jar, reading labels with the careful squint of someone who'd lost her spectacles and refused to admit it.

"This one," she said at last, holding up a small round bottle. The smell of a library in winter. "Is it vivid?"

"They're all vivid," Farida said. "That's a good one though. Quiet. You'll get the creak of a chair, pages turning, maybe snow against a window. Lasts about the length of a long breath."

She had no idea if any of that was true. She'd never opened a library memory or any other kind. But she'd been selling long enough to know what people wanted to hear, and a woman in a dusty travelling cloak wanted to be told that somewhere inside that little jar was a chair waiting for her. So Farida gave her the chair.

The woman bought it and two others. Farida wrapped them in scraps of cloth and took the coins and watched her disappear into the crowd. A clean transaction. No stories, no names.

By midday she'd sold nine jars. A decent morning. The spice merchant to her left, Ouhan, had been grinding something that made her eyes water since dawn, and she'd threatened twice to pour one of her sadder memories into his tea. He'd laughed both times and offered her a handful of roasted almonds in apology. This too was routine. The threat. The laugh. The almonds.

The blind calligrapher on her other side, Yesh, was writing something for a young couple. His hand moved without hesitation across the parchment, each stroke sure as a thing rehearsed a thousand times. Farida had never asked how he managed it. Some things you respected by not questioning, the same way you respected a memory by not opening it.

She packed up early that evening, as the sun went down and the crowd began to thin. Twenty-three jars sold. A good day. She counted her coins, folded her indigo cloth, and wheeled her cart home through the familiar streets, thinking of nothing much at all. Dinner. A bath. Tomorrow's inventory.

This was the shape of her life and she had chosen it on purpose.

"Twenty three jars" she kept recounting while trying to hide a smile. "Twenty three jars... so many memories... so many stories" She thought.

Before entering the house she parked her cart inside a small shack that served as her 'workspace'. She mainly used the shack for storage but when she noticed a particularly interesting memory, she drew some intricate design, just to increase the chances of a sale. After a while that became her way of marking extraordinary memories, ones that have gotten her seal of approval, even though she never bothered trying any of them.

As she lowered the cart in its place, a drop of sweat fell from her brow. Even though she had been ready for the heat, the carts weight always surprised her. Before leaving the shack she sat down to take a look at some of the memories as per usual. After rummaging for a bit she picked out a few and placed them on the table. Now came her favorite part.

Some time had passed and the Sun had finally set. She finished up all the designs and placed the bottles in a special handmade leather belt. "Finally, now time for that bath I've been looking forward to" Farida chuckled. When she stood up from her chair, she noticed that one bottle had fallen out of the cart. "Impossible" she though. There was no way that her cart had a hole, it was brand new, well, almost brand new considering she'd been using it for over a year now. When she picked it up and looked at the label. She couldn't help but reread it again and again. The label had been written in golden letter and it spelled Farida.

Time had suddenly stopped for her. Farida could feel her heartrate going up by the second, it kept beating faster and faster, each breath became shorter, swallowing had become a conscious effort and on top of all that, her head started to throb.

The heat came late that morning, or perhaps it had come on time and she had simply failed to notice. Farida had not slept. The jar sat on her bedside table where she had placed it sometime past midnight, after staring at it on her kitchen floor for an hour, and then on the chair, and then carrying it to bed because she could not bear to leave it in another room. She had not opened it. Three times she had reached for the wax. Three times her hand had stopped. By the small grey hour before dawn she had begun to wonder whether the label might fade by morning, the way some things in dreams do, and she was disappointed when the sun rose and the gold letters were still there. Farida. Her own name in someone's careful writing.

She wrapped the jar in a scrap of indigo cloth and slipped it into her belt pouch before she could change her mind. Then she changed her mind, and put it in the drawer with her spare aprons. Then she changed her mind again and brought it with her, because the thought of it sitting at home all day was somehow worse than carrying it.

The cart felt heavier than usual on the walk to the market. She told herself this was the new shipment, and not because every step was rattling that small glass thing in her belt that might or might not contain her own life.

By the time she reached her usual spot between Ouhan and Yesh, the sun was already bright and warm. The boy was singing, a different boy maybe, or the same one with a different song, she couldn't tell. She uncovered her wares with more difficulty than usual. The jars looked the same as ever. Amber and milk and pale gold. Strangers' lives, sorted in rows. She found herself looking at them differently now, picking up one and another, reading labels she had read a hundred times. A wedding in autumn. The taste of figs at a grandmother's table. First snow, age six. Whose grandmother. Whose figs. She had never wondered before. She set them down quickly, as though they had grown warm in her hand.

The first customer of the day was a young man with ink under his fingernails. He wanted something heroic, he said. A battle, a victory, a moment of glory that wasn't his.

"They don't really work like that," Farida said.

He blinked at her. This wasn't a normal response from her. The script was: yes, of course, here is exactly the moment of glory you are looking for, that will be eight coins.

"They're memories," she said. "Not stories. You'll get someone's leg cramping. The smell of horse. Someone shouting a name you don't know."

He bought one anyway, looking faintly cheated, and she took his coins with a hand that wanted very badly to be somewhere else.

A harvester was walking the long way down the market street with a wooden crate balanced on one shoulder, and she knew him by the cut of his coat. That long pale linen the harvesters wore, supposedly to keep the bottles cool, though she suspected it was mostly to be recognised. He was not one of hers. She knew her own three by face and gait. This one was taller, younger, with a beard trimmed short and a way of moving through the crowd that suggested he had somewhere to be. He passed her stall without looking. Harvesters rarely looked at sellers in public.

Farida watched him go.

For a moment she imagined herself standing up. Stepping out from behind her cart. Saying what? Excuse me, sir, I think someone has bottled me. Did you do this. Did you sell my name. The thought was absurd. He would look at her the way harvesters always looked at sellers who asked questions, briefly, and then not at all. And what if he had nothing to do with her jar? Hers came through the usual channel. She was tired, and she had not slept, and she was making a story out of a coincidence.

She let him go. She watched the flash of his coat until it disappeared into the crowd, and she let him go, and she sat back down on her stool feeling almost steadier for having decided.

By mid-morning her patience had worn down to something paper-thin. Ouhan was grinding cardamom and clove, the same blend he ground every Tuesday, and the dust of it was hanging in the air between their stalls like a small malignant cloud. Farida sneezed. Once. Twice. A third time, hard enough to set her jars rattling.

"For the love of every god," she snapped, "must you do that here?! Today?! Now?!"

Ouhan looked up, startled. He had a wooden pestle in one hand and a smear of yellow dust across his cheek. His mouth opened to say something, probably the offer of almonds, and Farida turned away before he could. She felt the heat climb into her face. She did not look back. She could feel him standing there, holding his pestle, working out what had just happened.

A small mean part of her was glad. A larger shameful part wanted to crawl beneath her cart and stay there.

Yesh, on her other side, said nothing. He was working on a name today, slow and patient, the brush moving in long sure strokes. But she felt his face turn slightly towards her. He had the courtesy not to ask.

Shame, shame, shame, those feelings stung worse than the bite of the most poisonous snake. What had been even worse was that they stuck to her like flies to a corpse, constantly lingering and just when she thought that they were gone, they came back to sting again. Farida had always thought that people who would lash out at others in such a way were incredibly impatient and rude. She wondered how could someone not think about what they were going to say. But now she found herself in the same exact situation and she understood those people very well, feeling even more shame after realizing that.

Half hour had passed and she was still brooding over her outburst. Farida did not even remember that she had served three people during that time. Only when she grabbed her soft yet heavy velvet pouch did she remember earning those coins. But that pouch brought back more than she had hoped for. It reminded her of the first time she came there and how Ouhan had given it to her as a welcome gift and a token of good faith. Knowing that the man had no ill intent and that the same thing had been happening for as long as she could remember, Farida mustered up the courage to turn around and face Ouhan, but when their eyes met she froze up. Standing there and staring at the now confused Ouhan did her no favours. Before he could utter a word Farida turned around and covered her cart in a sheet made of Silk Brocade with her own unique pattern. Everyone at the market knew that whenever someone would cover up their wares with any type of sheet it meant that they were either taking a break or done for the day.

Farida proceeded to leave her cart unattended and just like everyone else she knew that no one would dare touch it. There were no thieves at the market for a plethora of reasons. Mainly because it had been under tight watch by the guards and all of the sellers were authorized to use force to defend their wares if they noticed someone suspicious lurking about. That resulted in one of the safest markets on the continent.

At first, Farida wandered aimlessly until she had calmed down a little. "Today is definitely not my day." She thought. Then it came to her, at the far east corner of the market stood a stall where refreshments of all types and kinds were being sold. Farida had closed her eyes for a moment and a distant memory played out.

"Thank you! I'm not sure that I should take this gift though. The velvet seems to be of high quality and on top of that handmade." Farida gently fiddled with the pouch in her hands.

"Oh worry not, a gift is never meant to be an obligation but a gesture." The kind and still unknown man smiled at her. "And by the way, I am called Ouhan." He reached out his large but soft hand.

"Farida, nice to meet you." She shook his hand and the difference in size was unbelievable. Farida thought that the man's hands would have been rough but to her surprise they were even softer than hers. After their exchange and when the man went back to his cart she noticed that he was working with tons of different spices and herbs. Then it all made sense, whoever worked with such delicate leaves and plants had to have soft hands. Hands that were able to feel every single piece of the leaf, hands that were able to recognize if the plant had been ripe just by touch alone. She thought that master herbalists were all gone, that the trade did not yield much, but to her surprise there were still a few who delved in such delicate trade.

Not long after she had set up her cart for the first time, the man that was to her right, and that she coincidentally did not even notice at first appeared in front of her cart.

"Welcome, I hope that you will stay with us for a long time and that your business forever stays fruitful." The man bowed. "My name is Yesh, I sincerely hope that you will accept this as a welcome gift. It might not be as luxurious as Ouhans, but it will definitely quench your thirst in these hot days that are ahead of us." He offered her a glass of weird design filled with an unknown yellow-blue liquid.

"Farida, and thank you very much. All of you are so kind, I do not know how to repay you." She exclaimed gladly accepting the drink.

"There will be no need for that, but if you truly wish to do something, I doubt that both me and Ouhan would be against a drink on such a hot day. I recommend the stall far east from here, that is where I got your drink." Suddenly, Farida snapped back, someone had pushed her and the memory faded.

Realizing that she had been walking all this time without even paying attention, she found herself in front of that same stall Yesh recommended long ago. The glasses and the colours of the drinks were hypnotizing. Impossible combinations that seemed to blend so well with each other one would think that it was magic. Farida order three drinks and headed back to her cart. But then at the corner of her eye appeared a familiar figure wearing a distinct robe that she had already seen that day.