Mossy Market

The Mossy Market stood unusually still that afternoon.
Where once the clearing buzzed with chatter, haggling, and the gentle creak of carts, now only the flutter of tired bunting and the low hum of wary fireflies stirred the heavy air.

At the far end of the row, atop a rickety old stall dressed in fresh green moss, a single merchant remained.
Robin Goodbarrel, plump and spry, preened his chest feathers with determined briskness and rearranged his wares — bundles of dried sage, woven fern mats, and polished acorn buttons.

He was, he reminded himself firmly, open for business.

Even if the other stalls stood empty.
Even if the fireflies pulsed uneasily above the hedgerows.
Even if the woods themselves seemed to lean closer.

Robin was not about to be spooked by some half-heard whisperings about rustlings in the forest.
Mossy Grove had weathered worse.
…Probably.

He plucked up a stack of fern mats and was adjusting them just so when he caught movement out of the corner of his sharp eye.

Two figures shuffled past the far end of the row — heads low, steps quick.
Tamsin Quickwhistle’s dagger bounced against his side with each stride, and Merrin Underbough’s crossbow bumped gently against her back.

Weapons.

Robin ruffled his feathers instinctively, puffing out his chest.

Weapons?
In Mossy Grove?
Pah!
No one needed weapons here.
Not since…
Well.
Pah, again.

Long enough ago that those two looked downright foolish, skulking about like they expected to find a bear in the bread aisle.

Robin gave an indignant sniff and turned back to his table, beak ready to chirp a cheery greeting to the handful of browsers he’d seen earlier.

The table stood empty.
His customers — a pair of squirrels and a young badger — had slipped away without so much as a polite farewell.

The clearing was utterly silent now, save for the lazy flicker of the fireflies above.

Robin straightened his back and smoothed the front of his little waistcoat.

He decided — entirely of his own volition — that business had been sufficient for the day.
No sense lingering.
Entirely his decision.
Had nothing to do with chipmunks and rabbits skulking about with blades and bolts.

No sir.

He began packing briskly — no, efficiently — stacking his wares into his satchel with practiced speed.
The clearing felt larger, emptier, colder.

Whistling a bright, off-key tune, Robin trotted down the lane toward his cottage, not looking back once.

He did not notice he had left his stall standing open, moss mats fluttering sadly in the breeze.
He certainly didn’t notice the single, heavy set of tracks pressed deep into the soft mud near his table.

Robin reached his front door, slammed it shut with a bang that rattled the windows, and leaned back against it with a deep, shuddering breath.

A breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

Outside, the fireflies blinked slower… and slower… and slower.