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She passed by his booth every Saturday when the market opened. She would glance at his table, on occasion picking up a glass jar to read the label. One day, she asked if he was the artisan. Her voice hung questioningly in the air as his mind danced between syllables. A nod was all he could muster. He could see she was waiting for something more but words failed him. Words always failed him when he needed them the most. He had to find another way.