The sweeper turns, broom clutched to the chest, and pitches their voice into the square. "Can you hear it? The sound it's making?" The crowd stirs but does not answer — not immediately. There is the particular silence of people who fear that acknowledging a thing might oblige them to do something about it. A cloth merchant examines his wares. The guard's boots find a new stance on the cobblestones. Then a woman near the back raises her hand — only slightly, the way one does when uncertain they want to be seen. She is older, wrapped in a grey market shawl, cheeks flushed as though she has been running, though she has not moved. She meets the sweeper's eyes with an expression caught between recognition and dread. A small boy beside her tugs at her sleeve. She silences him with a firm, absent hand. The guard's voice sharpens: Move away from the mushroom, now.