Second Sunrise I've sold fruit at the Veyra colony market for nine years. I know every regular by their order. Not one by their name. That's how it is out here. Long shifts. Thin air. Everyone keeps to themselves. Then she showed up. Blue skin. Hair down to her waist. Asked a question at every single stall. Day 1: She asked me what the shimmering fruit was called. I didn't know. In nine years, nobody had ever asked. Week 1: She knew the name of every vendor. Including old Brennick, who hadn't spoken to anyone since his son left on the supply ship. Every morning, Brennick opened his stall at second sunrise. Same crates. Same silence. She started stopping by. Bought one wish-pear a day. Always paid full price. Never haggled. "Why not?" I asked her once. "Because he grew it," she said. "Somebody's whole year is in that fruit." Then one morning, Brennick's stall stayed closed. She noticed. Nobody else did. I didn't. She walked out to his farm, two hours on foot. Found him with a broken leg next to his harvest. Too proud to call anyone. She didn't call a committee. She didn't file a report. She picked up his basket and finished his harvest herself. Then she came back and told the rest of us. The next morning, eleven vendors were at Brennick's farm. Nobody organized it. Nobody was asked. We just showed up. His stall opened on time that week. And the week after. Last month, Brennick's son came home on the supply ship. First thing Brennick did was walk him to her, hand her the best wish-pear of the season, and say: "This one's not for sale." She laughed and split it in three. Out here, that doesn't mean "thank you." It means "you're family now." Inspired by the wonderful story of @SamuraiShibaJP 🙏