Mia by Yelizaveta Horbachova

Mia traced the rim of her teacup,

the floral pattern blurring slightly under her fingertip. Outside the bustling marketplace, bartering customers usually soothed her, a familiar hum against the quiet of her own thoughts. Today, however, a knot of unease tightened in her chest. A new apprentice, a young man named Finn, had started at her shop. He was bright and eager, but a flinch in his demeanour, a hesitation in his touch when handling fragile vials, reminded her of a time she’d long tried to bury.

She watched Finn carefully measure out dried lavender, his brow furrowed in concentration. His movements were precise, yet a tremor ran through his hands. It was the same tremor she remembered so vividly.

Mia, no older than seven, stood frozen in the doorway of the village bakery. The air was thick with the comforting scent of yeast and warm bread. Her younger brother, Thomas, lay on the floor, his face pale and contorted in pain. A heavy sack of flour had fallen from a high shelf, landing squarely on his small body.

The baker, a gruff man with flour dusting his apron like a permanent snowfall, stood over Thomas, his face a mask of annoyance. "Clumsy boy," he’d grumbled, making no move to help. Tears welled in Mia`s eyes, but a fierce protectiveness surged through her. She scrambled forward, her small hands pushing uselessly at the heavy sack. A kind-faced woman, another customer, finally rushed forward, her gentle hands lifting the sack while Mia cradled her brother’s head.

The baker offered no apology, no comfort. But the woman, whose name Mia later learned was Agnes, knelt beside them, her voice soft as she checked Thomas for injuries. She offered Mia a warm smile, her eyes filled with genuine concern. She then spoke firmly to the baker, her words quiet but carrying a weight of disapproval.

Agnes stayed with them until Thomas, bruised but thankfully not seriously hurt, was able to sit up. As they left, Agnes pressed a small, smooth stone into Mia`s hand. "To remember," she’d said simply, her eyes conveying a depth of empathy that the gruff baker had so clearly lacked.

The memory faded, leaving Mia with a familiar ache in her heart, but also a renewed understanding of her own motivations. Agnes’s simple act of kindness in a moment of fear and indifference had left an indelible mark. It had shown her the profound impact of empathy, the power of a gentle touch in the face of another’s pain.

It was why, when a customer’s child scraped their knee in her shop, Mia always had a soothing word and a brightly coloured bandage ready. It was why she patiently explained the properties of herbs to the sometimes-confused elderly patrons. And it was why, despite Finn’s initial nervousness, she approached him with a gentle smile.

"Finn," she said softly, her voice cutting through the marketplace hum. "Are you alright?"

He startled, his eyes wide. "Yes, Mia. Just... a bit clumsy today, I think."

Mia`s gaze was understanding. "Fragile things can be unsettling. Don't worry." She placed a reassuring hand on his arm, the gesture mirroring the unspoken comfort Agnes had offered her so many years ago. In that simple touch, Finn might not have seen the memory of a terrified little girl and a gruff baker, but he felt the warmth of a heart shaped by an act of selfless kindness, a heart that understood the quiet language of fear and the profound power of gentle reassurance. Mia`s kindness wasn't an inherent trait, it was a seed planted in a moment of childhood vulnerability, nurtured by the memory of a stranger’s empathy.