I stood behind the counter at Willow\u2019s Market, the little corner store I had worked at for four years. The smell of fresh bread wafted through the air, mingling with the warm scent of cinnamon from the bakery section. It was a comforting mix, the kind of smell that made the place feel like home.<\/p>\n
I ran my fingers over the edge of the shelf, straightening the jars of homemade jam. Every item had its place, and I made sure of it. Keeping the store neat wasn\u2019t just part of the job; it was my way of showing that I cared.<\/p>\n
Beside the register, a small box sat filled with handwritten notes\u2014each one carrying a simple kind wish for the customers. \u201cHope today brings you something good,\u201d or \u201cYou\u2019re stronger than you think.\u201d Some people ignored them, others smiled politely, and a few tucked them into their pockets like tiny treasures.<\/p>\n
Just then, the front door swung open, the bells jangling loudly. I didn\u2019t need to look up to know who it was. Logan.<\/p>\n
Logan was the son of the store\u2019s owner, Richard. But Logan didn\u2019t care much for Willow\u2019s Market. He wanted something more profitable\u2014maybe a liquor store, or a vape shop. The kind of business that brought in quick cash. Not the slow, steady business his father had built over the years. But Richard had refused. Willow\u2019s Market was more than just a store; it was part of the community.<\/p>\n
Logan, though, didn\u2019t understand that.<\/p>\n
He sneered as he scanned the store, his eyes cold, his hands buried in the pockets of his expensive coat.<\/p>\n
How\u2019s it going, Claire?\u201d he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of something sharp, something disdainful.<\/p>\n
I straightened and forced a polite tone. \u201cWe\u2019re doing well. I opened early today to get everything ready.\u201d<\/p>\n
His eyes flicked toward my box of notes, the ones I\u2019d written with so much care.<\/p>\n
What the hell is this?\u201d he scoffed, pulling one note from the box with two fingers, as though it were something dirty. \u201cEnjoy the little things? What kind of sentimental garbage is this?\u201d<\/p>\n
Before I could respond, he tossed the note on the floor, and with a careless swipe of his hand, knocked over the entire box. The notes fluttered like wounded birds, scattering across the wooden floor.<\/p>\n
I swallowed the lump in my throat and quickly knelt down to gather them up, my hands shaking. \u201cIt\u2019s just something nice for customers,\u201d I said quietly, trying to keep my voice steady.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I stood behind the counter at Willow\u2019s Market, the little corner store I had worked at for four years. The smell of fresh bread wafted through the… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":10894,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"fifu_image_url":"","fifu_image_alt":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10893","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news"],"yoast_head":"\n