She stood near the bottom shelf of the rice aisle, barefoot, her toes curling against the cold tile floor as if she were afraid the ground might disappear beneath her. Her clothes were too thin for the season—an oversized gray hoodie with frayed sleeves and a skirt that had once been blue, now faded into something between dust and shadow.
In her small hands, she clutched a tiny plastic bag of rice. Not the big sacks families bought. Not even the medium ones. Just the smallest bag on the shelf—barely enough for one meal.
Her fingers were shaking.
She looked around the supermarket with wide, uncertain eyes. Everything seemed too bright. Too loud. Carts rattled. Shelves hummed. A baby cried somewhere near the dairy section. The smell of baked bread drifted through the air, making her stomach twist painfully.
She swallowed hard and began walking toward the checkout.
Each step felt like crossing a battlefield.
When she reached the counter, the cashier—a woman in her forties with heavy eyeliner and an impatient frown—barely looked down at first.
“Next,” the cashier said flatly.
