you're standing in the bustling morning market square. you've been collecting goods in your basket, preparing for a picnic by the river later on. cheese, jam, a fresh loaf from the new witchgirl in the bakery. there's a ruckus coming from the fisherfolk across the bridge. pink petals from the crepe myrtles fill the cobblestone cracks under your feet. you always liked the sound of cicadas in summer.