The Aisle That Looked the Other Way
The automatic doors slid open, and a ninety-year-old woman stepped inside, her cane clutched like a lifeline. Each step was an effort. Her knees quivered. Her back ached. But the list in her pocket—bread, butter, tea, soup—was non-negotiable. She had always taken care of herself, and even now, she would not depend on anyone.
The store buzzed with motion: carts squeaked, baskets bumped, scanners beeped. She crept along Aisle 7, silver hair escaping her checkered scarf, squinting at labels and muttering numbers under her breath. A loaf of bread brought a soft sigh of relief. The butter made her pause—prices rising like clouds over essentials.
