His jaw trembled. ‘Bye,’ he muttered, his voice lower this time. Then he leaned towards me so that I could catch the faint scent of expensive cologne.
‘And you’re still working here,’ he added, a warning in his voice. ‘One more mistake, Claire, and you’ll be looking for a new job.’
His words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. He wasn’t just talking about my notes.
Then he turned and walked away. The bell above the door jingled behind him, the sound sharp and abrupt.
I stood with my heart in my mouth, looking at the notes scattered across the floor.
I had spent time writing each one, hoping they would bring someone comfort. But in the end, they were just pieces of paper to him.
I took a deep breath, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
Then I slowly knelt down and began picking them up again.
Later that day, I stood behind the cash register, absentmindedly smoothing my apron as I watched Mrs. Thompson count out coins with her careful fingers.
Thompson, counting coins with her neat fingers. She was one of our regular customers, always buying the same things — fresh bread and a small packet of tea.
The shop was quiet, the golden afternoon light streaming through the windows. Outside, cars drove by lazily, a few people walked past, chatting about this and that.
Finally, Mrs. Thompson counted out the right amount and, with a satisfied nod, placed a small stack of coins on the counter.
‘You know, dear,’ she said, looking at me with a warm, wrinkled smile, ‘this shop is the best in the neighbourhood. I don’t know what I would do without it.’
Her words made my chest tighten. I hadn’t noticed how tense I had become after Logan’s visit. His voice was still ringing in my head, sharp and full of warning.
‘One more mistake, Claire, and you’ll be looking for a new job.’
I forced myself to smile. ‘That means a lot, Mrs. Thompson. It really does.’
She patted my arm with the gentleness that only age can give. ‘Don’t let that boy get to you,’ she said knowingly.
Before I could reply, I was drawn to the movement near the sandwich shelf. A small figure in an oversized hoodie hung there, head bowed low, fingers clenched convulsively at her sides.
Something about the way they moved—too hesitant, too nervous—made my stomach clench.
I glanced back at Mrs. Thompson. She was putting her tea away in her handbag and humming to herself.
I turned back to the hooded figure.
‘Excuse me!’ I called out, stepping out from behind the counter. ‘Can I help you find something?’
The guy looked up, and for a split second his wide brown eyes locked with mine. Then…
They ran away.
In one swift movement, they darted for the door, their trainers skidding slightly on the worn floorboards.
The small figure disappeared into their pocket as they squeezed through the door, causing the hanging bells to ring frantically.
My stomach knotted.
I looked at Mrs. Thompson. ‘Can you watch the register?’
She hesitated only slightly before waving me away. ‘Go, dear!’ She clutched her handbag as if preparing to defend the shop.
I ran out into the street, my heart pounding as I scanned the busy pavement. The boy was fast — too fast.
He weaved through the crowd, dodging people, slipping around corners as if he’d done this before.
I almost lost them. Almost.
Then I heard a voice.
‘He ran that way, five minutes ago.’
I turned around. A homeless man was sitting on a newspaper, lazily pointing to a side street.
I nodded in thanks and hurried forward, following his example.
And then I saw her.
The boy stopped behind an abandoned alley, far from the main street. A oversized hoodie clung to her small frame, making her look even younger.
I slowed my pace and pressed myself against the brick wall at the entrance to the alley, watching her.
She took something out of her pocket.
A wrapped sandwich.
From another pocket, she took out a tiny candle and a lighter.
My breath caught in my throat.
She carefully unwrapped the sandwich, smoothing out the paper as if it were something precious. Then she stuck the small candle into the soft bread and flicked the lighter.
A tiny flame flickered.
And then she sang.
‘Happy birthday to me… Happy birthday to me…’
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut me like a knife.
She smiled — just a little — then took a deep breath and blew out the candle.
I stepped forward without thinking twice.
The girl froze.
Her large brown eyes filled with fear, and she took a quick step back, clenching her hands into fists.
‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, already retreating from me like a cornered animal.
I knelt down, trying to keep my voice soft. ‘You don’t have to run away.’
Her lips trembled.
‘Are you angry?’ she whispered.
I shook my head. ‘I just don’t want you to have to steal a sandwich on your own birthday.’