Willow’s Market and the Unexpected Turn
I stood behind the counter at Willow’s Market, the small corner store where I had worked for the past four years.
The scent of fresh bread lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of cinnamon from the bakery section. It was a comforting smell, the kind that wrapped around you like a warm blanket on a cold morning. The store had that effect—cozy, familiar, a little worn around the edges but full of heart.
I ran my fingers along the edge of a shelf, straightening the jars of homemade jam. Every item had its place, and I made sure of it. Keeping the store neat wasn’t just part of the job; it was my way of showing I cared.
Beside the register, I had placed a small box filled with handwritten notes—each one carrying a simple kind wish for the customers. Little things like, “Hope today brings you something good” or “You’re stronger than you think.”
Some people ignored them, some smiled politely, and a few—especially the older customers—tucked them into their pockets like tiny treasures. It was something small, but it made people smile. And that mattered to me.
