I stood behind the counter at Willow’s Market, the corner store I had worked at for four years, surrounded by the comforting scents of fresh bread and cinnamon. As I straightened the jars of homemade jam, I took pride in keeping the store neat, a reflection of my care for the community. Beside the register, a box filled with handwritten notes offered kind wishes to customers, some of whom appreciated them while others dismissed them.

Just then, Logan, the owner’s son, entered with a sneer, dismissing my notes as “sentimental garbage.” He knocked the box over, scattering the notes across the floor, and warned me that I’d be looking for a new job if I made another mistake. His disdain hung heavy in the air, but I focused on gathering the notes, trying to shake off the frustration his words stirred within me.