The port city had long since learned that trade waited for no comfort. Before dawn, wagons crunched on the cobblestones. Dockworkers shouted instructions as ships unloaded cotton and tobacco bound for northern markets and foreign ports. The air was thick with sea spray, damp wood, horse sweat, and smoke from morning fires. For most of the inhabitants, it was just another day, like dozens of others.
In the center of the marketplace stood a wooden platform, worn smooth by years of use. On this platform, human beings were sold with the same administrative efficiency as livestock or furniture. That morning, a young woman was brought up the steps and placed in the center.
Her name was Dinina.
She was twenty-two years old and five months pregnant. A rope tightened around her wrists so tightly that the fibers had already torn her skin. Blood blackened the rough threads. She didn’t scream. Tears had never changed fate. She remained motionless, shoulders straight, eyes fixed straight ahead, as if stillness itself were a form of resistance.
The auctioneer, Cyrus Feldman, unfolded the bill of sale. He was an experienced man, known for his precision and professionalism. His reputation rested on order, not conscience. Yet, as he scanned the document, his usual composure wavered. The starting price was so low it bordered on the absurd.
Nineteen hundred.
Leave a Comment