If she had stayed long enough, Woods would have seen Philippe Burke and Anna Krytsyna out on an evening date together. If she’d stayed REALLY late, she would’ve heard DJ Louv playing mixes through a 240-watt portable speaker while his dog, Magical Beans, magically slept beside him. If she stayed until 1:30 a.m., she might have caught the Afrobeats pounding from Clarence Street’s clubs. If she’d stayed even later, past the last calls and into the pre-dawn stillness, Woods would have seen the Market nearly abandoned — save for a garbage truck, a few souls sleeping rough on benches and sidewalks, and maybe Baba making his rounds in a white van, righting and recharging e-scooters. She might have noticed the seagulls circling overhead, fighting over the night’s leftovers, or Paul Albert, a former photographer, now homeless, collecting empty bottles and a discarded crumpled lottery ticket — worth checking, he said; you never know. And if she’d stayed so late that it became early again, she’d have seen the Market coming back to life: bakers arriving for their shifts at Le Moulin de Provence, trucks delivering supplies to restaurants, residents walking dogs, vendors setting up stalls, shoppers appearing, and perhaps someone else taking Woods’s place outside La Bottega, juice in hand, with time to kill.