Elara raced through the winding village. Her pockets were heavy with gifts for everyone she met.
She pressed a red apple into the baker's palm and a sprig of mint to the potter. Then she was off again before anyone could say thank you.
She darted to the hedge-mender next, leaving a wedge of cheese on his workbench. Her pockets were lighter now, but her feet kept running.
She kept running until her basket was empty and her knees were dusty. The hedgerows hummed with bees.
The path stretched ahead, always full of more things to give. But her basket was empty now.
At the edge of the lane, a quiet stranger sat with a thermos and two chipped mugs. She set one mug on the stone wall.
The stranger looked up and said, 'Elara.' Without asking for anything in return.
She wrapped her hands around the warm mug and drank. 'Thank you,' she whispered, sitting down without another dash.