That afternoon was slow, the kind of slow where the clock seemed to move backwards. Snow had started falling outside, covering the sidewalks in a thin white layer, and the streets were unusually quiet. I was behind the counter organizing invoices when the door chimed softly.
A boy walked in.
He couldn’t have been older than eight.
His jacket looked too thin for the weather, and his shoes were worn in a way that suggested they had belonged to someone else before him. He stood near the entrance for a moment as if gathering the courage to step further inside. There was something about the way he moved that immediately caught my attention. It wasn’t curiosity like most kids who came into stores. It was hesitation.
He looked around slowly.
Not at the candy rack.
Not at the drinks.
