La Bourse (The Purse)

I am the Purse, the leather bag that holds the traveller's coins and the merchant's takings. I open for the right coin: gold for a full trip, silver for a single experience, copper for a small good. I know which purse to open: one for the coin paid hand to hand, one for the coin sent from a distant house, one for the promise sealed by word alone. I am the moment of exchange, the clink of coins that seals the deal.

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A widow from Toledo once came to me with only copper. She wanted gold — a trip to Granada, three nights, the full route. I held her coins and waited. The Scribe came with a voucher; the Steelyard shifted its weight; the Scale accepted half-payment. The widow travelled. She returned with stories, not coins, and told the market that the Purse has a heart. It does not. It has a latch that opens when the Scribe says so.