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.
Logan exploded, threatening to call the police. I offered to quit if he didn’t. He agreed—and fired me.
The next day, I handed in my resignation. But Richard, the owner, had heard everything.
“I don’t want Logan running this place,” he said. “I want you.”
Tears welled up. I hadn’t just saved a girl—I’d found where I truly belonged.
