It was at a flea market, of all places.

The kind you go to wonder aimlessly, pretending you're looking for something very specific,

knowing that chances are you will probably leave with nothing.

Rows of mismatched tables stretched over the cracked pavement under the afternoon sun, piled high with old tools,

scratched up yellowing furniture and junk people had dug out of their garages.

The air smelled like kettle corn and cheap sunscreen with a faint tang of rust from some

vendor's collection of scrap metal.

My apartment was still mostly empty.

I just moved in, and the empty walls and bare corners were starting to really bother me.

I wasn't on the search for anything specific, just something to make the place feel less like an abandoned storage unit and more like a home.

A lamp maybe, or an interesting piece of furniture, cheap preferably.

It didn't take long to find something.

At one of the stalls, tucked behind a pile of well-worn tools and broken frames, I saw a bunch of mismatched furniture.

A side table painted with white, with chipped corners, a small stool, and an old couch that needed a wash or two.

It was a random assortment tied together with fraying twine, but it was solid enough for what I needed.

"'Hundred bucks for the lot,' the vendor said, catching me looking.

He was older and looked like he'd been sitting in a folding chair for his entire life.

Before I got a chance to respond, he added, take it and I'll even throw in that painting

over there.

I followed his nod and saw it propped against the back of the chair leg, the painting.

It was half hidden behind a stack of dented cans, its edges were frayed and its frame was stretched.

A woman stood alone in a vast field of wheat, a figure poised in a strange way, almost reverent.

...