The market was loud.
Henry stood at the edge of Borough Market watching his siblings and cousins filter through the entrance. Thomas had already disappeared into the crowd. Marianne was adjusting her scarf. Eleanor stood with her hands in her coat pockets, scanning the layout. Their cousin Daniel hovered near a fruit stall.
"You coming?" Eleanor called back.
Henry nodded and followed.
Late December in London. Cold enough to see your breath. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets.
Thomas reappeared from between two stalls. "Found the cheese vendor. He remembers me."
"That's not necessarily a compliment," Marianne said.
"It's better than being forgotten."
They moved deeper into the market. Henry let the others lead. The space was packed—narrow walkways between stalls, people shouldering past each other. Office workers on late lunch breaks, tourists taking photos, elderly women moving with purpose. Christmas shopping energy. Urgent. Focused.
Thomas stopped at a cheese stall. The vendor—gray-haired, wearing a Santa hat—looked up and grinned.
"You're back."
"Brought reinforcements this time."
The vendor glanced at the rest of them. "Family?"
"Unfortunately," Thomas said.
"My condolences."
Henry watched the exchange. Thomas had always been better at this—talking to strangers, finding ease anywhere. Eleanor was watching too. Marianne had drifted toward a display of preserves.
The vendor wrapped three wedges of cheese in paper, handed them to Thomas along with a loaf of sourdough. "Don't let them go stale."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They moved on. The walkway narrowed between a butcher's stall and something selling spiced teas. Henry could smell both—meat and smoke mixing with cinnamon and clove.
Daniel caught up to him. "It's busier than I thought it would be."
"Christmas," Henry said.
"Right." Daniel stepped aside to let a woman with three shopping bags pass. "Have you been here before?"
"A few times."
"It's good. Different from the usual places."
"That's why it's good."
They passed a stall selling flowers. Winter blooms. Roses and something white Henry didn't recognize. Red ribbons tied around the stems. A woman was haggling over price, her accent thick. Polish maybe. The vendor was holding firm.
Eventually the woman paid. Compromise.
"What are you going to do?" Daniel asked. "After the holidays?"
Henry glanced at him. "Keep looking."
"For what?"
"I'll know when I find it."
Daniel kicked at a loose cobblestone. "That sounds frustrating."
"It is. But it's better than pretending I already know."
They caught up to the others at a spice stall. Eleanor was deep in conversation with the vendor about sourcing. Trade routes and quality control. The vendor seemed impressed.
"She does this everywhere," Marianne said, appearing beside Henry. "Asks questions until she understands the entire supply chain."
"Sounds like Eleanor."
"It's exhausting to watch."
But Marianne was smiling.
They stopped at an oyster stall. The fishmonger looked like he'd spent his life on boats—weathered face, hands moving with automatic precision. Eleanor ordered half a dozen. Henry watched her eat one.
"You should try one," she said.
Henry did. Salt and cold and something metallic. He nodded.
"Good?"
"Different."
She almost smiled. "You used to hate oysters."
"I used to hate a lot of things."
"And now?"
"Now I'm more selective about what I hate."
Eleanor picked up another oyster. "Fair enough."
Henry leaned against the stall's edge. Around them the market continued—people pushing past, voices overlapping. He watched a vendor stack apples into pyramids. Watched a couple debate over cheese.
The fishmonger handed over another plate. Eleanor ate one, then pushed the plate toward Henry. "Help me finish these."
They ate in silence for a minute. Thomas appeared from somewhere, saw the oysters, made a face. "Disgusting."
"More for us," Eleanor said.
"How are you two related to me?"
"Bad luck," Henry said.
Thomas wandered off again. Henry watched him go—the easy confidence, the way he moved through the crowd like he belonged anywhere.
Marianne found a French bakery tucked into a corner. The owner was a small woman with flour on her sleeves. Marianne spoke to her in French—fluid, accent perfect. The woman's face shifted, pleased. She pulled out extra pastries, wrapped them carefully. A small Christmas tree sat on the counter, decorated with tiny ornaments made of bread dough.
"Show-off," Thomas muttered, reappearing.
"Competence isn't showing off," Marianne replied.
"It is when you make it look that easy."
Henry took the pastry she handed him. Almond croissant, still warm. He ate it slowly. Butter and sugar and the faint bitterness of almond paste.
Marianne watched him for a moment. "Father asked me to convince you to come back. To the firm."
"I know."
"How?"
"Because that's what Father does. Deploy the people he thinks I'll listen to."
Marianne smiled slightly. "Should I be offended you predicted it?"
"You should be flattered I put you in that category."
"Fair." She dusted crumbs from her coat. "For what it's worth, I told him you'd made up your mind. That sending me was pointless."
"And?"
"He sent me anyway."
Henry laughed. Of course he did. "What did you actually tell him?"
"That you needed to figure out what you wanted. That maybe that was more important than what he wanted."
"How'd he take it?"
"About as well as you'd expect."
Thomas reappeared again, this time with Daniel. "We found meat pies. Actual meat pies. The kind that might kill us but taste incredible."
"Pass," Marianne said.
"Your loss."
They found a coffee stall. The machine was old brass, elaborate. The owner—a man in his sixties with spectacular mustaches and a Christmas sweater featuring a reindeer in sunglasses—served them espresso in tiny cups.
Henry drank his standing. The caffeine hit almost immediately. Strong. Almost aggressive. He liked it.
"This is civilization," Thomas announced.
"This is overpriced," Eleanor corrected.
"Both can be true."
Henry watched the flow of people. The way they moved with purpose or without it. Some stopped to examine everything. Others cut straight through. London felt dense here. Contained. Everything pressed together.
'I missed this,' he thought.
A woman bumped into him, apologized without looking, kept moving.
Marianne appeared beside him with her own espresso. "You're quiet."
"Observing."
"Always observing." She sipped her coffee, made a face. "God, that's strong."
"That's the point."
They stood there for a moment. Thomas was trying to convince Daniel that the meat pies were worth the risk. Eleanor had found a bookstall. Christmas music was playing from somewhere—instrumental and vaguely jazzy.
"We'll miss you," Marianne said quietly. "When you leave."
"I'll miss this too."
"But not enough to stay."
"No."
She nodded. "I understand that."
They kept moving. Thomas collected olives in a small jar, explaining at length why these specific olives would change their understanding of food. Eleanor discovered a spice vendor and spent ten minutes discussing sourcing while the rest of them waited, stamping their feet against the cold.
By noon they'd accumulated bags of food. Cheese, bread, pastries, fruit Henry couldn't identify, jars of things that would probably sit in a cupboard for months. They found a table in one of the covered sections. Old wood, scarred and stained. Someone had carved initials into one corner. J.P. + M.R. 1947.
'Wonder if they're still together,' Henry thought.
"Right," Thomas said, breaking the bread. "We eat."
No ceremony. Just fingers tearing bread, cheese passed around, olives eaten straight from the jar. The bread was good—dense, with a crust that cracked under pressure. The cheese was sharp. The olives were salty.
Conversation started in fragments. Thomas complained about a gallery opening in Berlin where the artist had gotten into a fistfight with a critic over a blank canvas. Eleanor mentioned she'd been taking pottery classes, that she'd made a bowl that was "aggressively mediocre but personally satisfying." Marianne talked about trying to redirect family foundation money toward supporting working artists instead of "safe, dead painters who don't need the money anymore."
Daniel was quiet at first, picking at bread. Then: "I'm thinking about architecture school."
Silence for a beat. Thoughtful.
"Do it," Henry said.
"Really?"
"The firm doesn't need you. Do what interests you."
Thomas nodded. "He's right. The firm will be fine. We've got enough people doing things they don't want to do."
"Speak for yourself," Eleanor said mildly.
"I am."
Daniel's shoulders relaxed. "Father won't like it."
"Father doesn't have to like it," Henry said. "It's not his life."
"Easy for you to say. You already said no."
"Which is exactly why I'm saying it. Saying no was the best decision I made."
Marianne passed the cheese. "What's the plan? After the holidays?"
Henry tore off another piece of bread. "Keep looking."
"For what?"
"Something that matters."
"That's vague."
"That's honest."
Eleanor poured water into mismatched cups. "You'll figure it out."
"Eventually."
"Or you won't," Thomas said. "Either way, better to try than to wonder."
Henry appreciated that.
They kept eating. The market around them was loud—constant motion, voices, the scrape of crates. Music from somewhere. A violin maybe. Mournful and hopeful at once.
Henry watched his siblings and cousins. The easy way they moved around each other. The shorthand in their conversations. The arguments that started and ended without real heat.
'This is family,' he thought. 'Not the formal dinners. This.'
Eleanor caught him looking. "What?"
"Nothing. Just... this is good."
"This?"
"All of it. Being here. With all of you."
She smiled. Small. Real. "You're getting sentimental."
"Maybe."
"It's the Christmas season. Everyone gets sentimental."
"Or honest."
"Same thing."
Maybe it was.
The afternoon stretched. They ate everything they'd bought, talked until the conversation naturally lulled. Around them, the market continued. Vendors called out last-minute deals. Shoppers hurried past with arms full of bags. Someone was handing out samples of mulled wine. The smell of cinnamon and citrus drifted over.
"What's the best part?" Daniel asked suddenly. "About not having a plan?"
Henry thought about it. "The possibility. Not knowing what comes next."
"And the worst part?"
"Same thing. Not knowing what comes next."
Thomas laughed. "That's incredibly unhelpful."
"That's accurate."
Eleanor pulled out a camera. One of the newer digital models. Small. Expensive.
"For posterity," she said.
"For blackmail," Thomas corrected.
"Also true."
She took photos. Henry mid-sentence. Marianne laughing at whatever Thomas had just said. Daniel looking young and thoughtful. All of them together, crowded around the table. The light was good—afternoon sun filtered through the market's glass roof, warm despite the December cold.
'I'll remember this,' Henry thought.
Later, after they'd exhausted both the food and the conversation, Thomas stood and stretched. "We should move. Before we root here permanently."
They gathered bags, redistributed the remaining purchases.
They filtered back through the market. Slower now. The crowd had thinned. Henry noticed things he'd missed before. A bookstall tucked into a corner. A vendor selling old records. A woman arranging flowers with practiced precision. Christmas lights reflecting off wet cobblestones.
The violin was still playing. Different song now. Something that sounded like a carol but wasn't quite.
Eleanor fell into step beside him. "You'll text?"
"When I have something worth saying."
"Text anyway. Even if you don't."
"Alright."
"I mean it."
"I know."
She seemed satisfied with that.
They reached the market's edge. The street beyond was busy—cars, buses, people moving with purpose. London in late December. Gray and cold and utterly indifferent to all of them.
Thomas was already planning something. A pub, maybe. Or dinner somewhere. Henry half-listened, watching the street.
Marianne linked her arm through his. "You'll figure it out."
"Maybe."
"You will." She squeezed his arm once. "Just don't forget we exist while you're doing it."
"Not possible."
"Promise."
"Promise."
Ahead, Thomas and Eleanor were debating restaurant options. Daniel was texting someone. Normal. Ordinary. The kind of afternoon that wouldn't seem significant until later, when distance made it precious.
Henry let himself be pulled along.
'Whatever comes next,' he thought, 'this is what matters.'
His siblings. His cousins. This particular afternoon in Borough Market two days before Christmas.
He didn't need to say it.
They already knew.