There is a place where stall owners scream curses to the passersby, peddlers sell fake antiques to the foolish, and cruel abductors with even nastier intentions make children vanish into the backs of vans and trucks.

But I’m unaware of all that.

My grandfather holds my hand tightly as we wedge through the tangle of people rushing to their jobs. The air smells like warm sesame-butter noodles straight out of the pan, and it somehow manages to cover the reek of sweat and unwashed feet. His voice breaks into my thoughts.

“Do you want pumpkin buns for breakfast?” he asks, gazing down at me, his bright eyes crinkling.

I see the stall in the distance. Steam rises slowly from golden-orange buns and coils its way into the hazy gray sky. A long, jostling chain of impatient people is already gathered there, anticipating a bite of food before work.

Feeling my stomach suddenly growl with hunger, I nod wholeheartedly.

But at that time, if I had known how much even a single pumpkin bun cost, I would’ve kept silent and shaken my head.