I’d worked at Willow’s Market for four years, keeping shelves tidy and leaving kind notes for customers. It wasn’t just a job—it was a place that felt like home.
One morning, Logan, the owner’s son, came in sneering at my notes and knocking them over. He wanted to turn the market into something more profitable. His words stung: “One more mistake, Claire.”
Later, a girl stole a sandwich and ran. I chased her, only to find her lighting a candle in it, whispering “Happy birthday to me.” I brought her back gently.