Morning passed the way it always did.

  We ate together without hurry.

  My brother finished quickly, already restless, backpack waiting by the

  door. My mother checked the time twice, then once more, the habit of

  someone who measures days in shifts.

  She took him to school.

  At the door, she touched my shoulder lightly—

  not a question,

  not concern—

  just presence.

  Then she was gone too, heading for the hospital.

  The house emptied.

  I followed my routine.

  The walk to the store felt ordinary.

  Too ordinary.

  Inside, the lights were already on, bright and patient. Shelves stood

  in neat rows. The register hummed softly, alive in its own quiet way.

  I clocked in.

  Mrs. Clara was already there.

  She’d been working here longer than anyone could

  remember—mid-fifties, sharp eyes, hands always moving. She treated the

  store like it was hers and everyone else like they belonged in it too.

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  She looked at me for a second longer than usual.

  “You look dull today,” she said, not unkindly.

  I shrugged and signed back that I was fine. All good.

  She squinted at me, unconvinced, then smiled.

  “Careful,” she added. “At this rate, you’ll start looking younger than me.”

  I typed back on my phone and showed her the screen.

  You look young every day.

  She laughed and waved me off.

  “Don’t flatter me, Ariel. I know my age.”

  The day moved.

  Customers came and went.

  Coins clinked.

  Bags rustled.

  I did my work.

  But my eyes kept returning to the entrance.

  I didn’t know why.

  Nothing was different about the door.

  Nothing about the street outside suggested change.

  Still, I looked.

  Again.

  And again.

  Each time it opened, my attention lifted without permission.

  Each time it closed, nothing followed.

  I told myself it meant nothing.

  By the end of the shift, my shoulders felt heavier than they should have.

  I went home.

  The evening passed quietly. Dinner. A little television. My brother

  complained about homework. My mother listened more than she spoke.

  I slept.

  The next day was better.

  Or maybe just easier.

  At the store, I worked without watching the door. My focus stayed

  where it belonged. The shelves were restocked. The register balanced.

  Mrs. Clara hummed to herself while counting receipts.

  It felt normal again.

  By late afternoon, the light outside shifted.

  Four o’clock.

  I was stacking items near the counter when something made me look up.

  She was there.

  Not inside.

  Outside.

  Walking past the entrance.

  Then back again.

  Once.

  Twice.

  She stopped.

  Stood still for a moment, as if deciding something.

  Then she opened the door.

  She stepped in slowly, eyes finding me immediately.

  She hesitated.

  And then—

  “Hi, Ariel.”

  To be continued…

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