Turns out running a small vegetable trade operation comes with an occupational hazard nobody warned me about, and her name is apparently Widow Sun.
I find this out on my second solo market trip, when I set up my usual corner spot only to discover someone’s already claimed it, spread out across twice the space I normally use, glaring at me like I’ve personally insulted her entire bloodline just by existing nearby.
“That’s my spot,” she informs me, arms crossed over a truly impressive pile of scallions that look suspiciously similar to mine.
“I’ve been selling here for weeks.”
“And I’ve been selling here for eleven years, so I believe seniority settles this rather quickly.” She looks me up and down, taking in my dirt smudged sleeves and general lack of market polish with the practiced disdain of someone who’s sized up a hundred amateurs before me and found every single one wanting.
“New vendor, I take it.
How charming.
Try the other side of the square, dear, before you embarrass yourself further.”
I have survived an avalanche.
I have talked down aggressive geese.
I refuse to be intimidated by a woman selling scallions, even if her scallions are, I notice with some private horror, genuinely excellent.
“I’ll set up right here, thanks,” I say, planting my basket down with as much confidence as I can fake on short notice.
Widow Sun’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline, and something in her expression shifts from mild annoyance into the specific, focused look of a woman who has just decided this newcomer requires actual effort to remove.
The next hour is, professionally speaking, a disaster.
Every time I quote a customer a price, Widow Sun quotes hers lower, just enough to poach the sale without technically starting a scene.
Every time I mention my scallions are grown fresh, she loudly informs the surrounding stalls that hers were harvested that very morning, with a pointed look in my direction that suggests she suspects, correctly, that mine are a day older.
“That’s just business,” she says sweetly, when I finally corner her during a lull between customers.
“Nothing personal.”
“It’s feeling extremely personal.”
“Perhaps you should have considered that before setting up in a spot that’s clearly spoken for.” She examines her own scallions with theatrical pride.
“Though I suppose newcomers rarely understand how these things work.”
“I understand exactly how this works.
You’re threatened by the competition.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Threatened.
Ha”!
“By my scallions, specifically, yes.” I say, narrowing my eyes.
This turns out to be, tactically, the wrong thing to say, because Widow Sun’s entire posture shifts into something that reads less like territorial annoyance and more like a declaration of war, and for the rest of the afternoon she undercuts me on every single item I try to sell, dropping prices low enough that I end up going home with barely half my usual earnings and a newfound, deeply personal grudge against a woman I met three hours ago.
“She sabotaged you,” Mei says that evening, delighted by the drama in a way I find slightly concerning.
“A whole turf war.
Over vegetables.”
“It’s not funny, Mei.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It’s mildly funny at best.” I count out the day’s meager earnings for the third time, hoping the number will change if I stare at it hard enough.
It doesn’t.
“The problem is she’s actually good.
Her produce is genuinely excellent, she knows the market better than I do, and she’s got eleven years of loyal customers who trust her over some new vendor showing up out of nowhere.”
“So how do we beat her?”
“We don’t beat her.
Beating her just means an ongoing war I don’t have time to win, and honestly, some petty, competitive part of me suspects I’d lose anyway, purely on seniority.” I lean back, thinking it through the way I’d think through any stubborn problem, terrain to be read rather than an enemy to be crushed outright.
“We make her an ally instead.”
I show up the next morning with a peace offering instead of a competing basket, a jar of the fermented cabbage, finally ready after its two weeks of mysterious transformation, and set it down in front of Widow Sun’s stall with the careful diplomacy of someone negotiating an actual treaty.
“What’s this,” she asks, suspicious.
“A truce, hopefully.
Or at least a bribe substantial enough to get you to hear me out for two minutes.”
She eyes the jar like it might be poisoned, which, fair, given how our first meeting went, and finally pries the lid off, sniffing cautiously.
“That smells unusual.”
If you hate it, I’ll never bother you again and you can go back to happily crushing my scallion sales into dust.”
She tries it.
Her eyebrows shoot up, this time for a very different reason, and she takes a second, larger bite before she catches herself doing it.
“This is…
interesting,” she admits, grudging.
“It’s a preservation technique.
Keeps vegetables edible for months, adds flavor most people around here haven’t tasted before.
I’m happy to teach you the method, in exchange for not actively sabotaging me every time I set up a stall.” Coming back from the future has its perks!
😉
She considers this for a long moment, weighing the jar in one hand, weighing me in the other, clearly running the same kind of calculation I’d run in her position.
“You’d share the technique.
Freely?.”
“Freely.
I’ve got no interest in cornering the market, Widow Sun, I’ve got a garden and a household to keep fed and not much appetite left over for eleven years of turf war.”
Something in her expression softens, just slightly, the fight going out of it in favor of something closer to reluctant respect.
“You’re an odd sort of vendor,” she says finally.
“I’ve been told.”
“Fine.
Teach me this method.
I’ll stop undercutting you, provided your prices stay reasonable and you don’t crowd my regulars.” She holds out a hand, and I shake it, feeling something ease in my chest that’s been tight since yesterday’s disaster.
“Deal.”
By the end of the week, Widow Sun’s got her own jar of fermenting cabbage tucked away at home, my earnings have recovered nicely now that we’re not actively torpedoing each other’s sales, and I’ve gained, against every expectation I walked into that market with, my first genuine ally who has absolutely nothing to do with palace politics, conspiracies, or handsome princes with terrible disguises.
Turns out not every problem needs solving with strategy and secrets.
Sometimes it just needs a good jar of cabbage and the willingness to stop being stubborn first.
Oh, and also..borrowing technology and methods from the future!