Abia had little concept of wealth.
Only that In Merolas, money was merely bits of brass that jingled in cloth pockets.
Soon to be spent, or stolen.
At market, two pieces could be exchanged for pan caliente (hot bread).
If you dared beyond the safety of the crowds clasping hands, two pieces could be exchanged for vida (life).
“Dinero is trouble. When you have it and when you don’t.” her mother would say.
Merolas sat on the edge of a city that had begun to change.
With rapid influx of wealth arose luxuries un-dreamable.
But Grand silver towers were built in hast with bricks of ego.
Evergreen bloomed boastfully in it’s thousand tones.
Rivers ran rapid with greed that spilled out into the city.
Abia and her family were cloaked in distance. For now, they were far enough away to stay unaffected.
But they were close enough to see, close enough to hear.
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