Osric’s baskets clink with straw and shells as he weaves through the market. He never shouts his wares — just sets down a crate, wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, and waits. Folk come because his hens range on the fallow strips by the river, and the yolks are richer than most.
He has a habit of counting aloud when folk lift eggs from the tray, even though they can count fine themselves. “Three, four, five…” — steady as a church bell. Children tease him for it, and he doesn’t mind.
He limps from an old break in the leg, set badly one winter. Still walks to market every week, leaning on a stick polished smooth with years. Stays till near dark, not to sell more, but to swap gossip with whoever’s left packing up.