Still, when I approached her, she didn’t try to flee. Instead, she froze, turned toward me, and tears filled her eyes. In a quiet, shaking voice, she explained that the book had been her mother’s favorite.
Her mother had read it to her every night before illness took over, and she had passed away the previous year. The girl said she wanted to place the same book on her mother’s grave as a final, familiar gift. She wasn’t looking for trouble—she was trying to hold onto a memory.
Rules suddenly felt less important than the moment unfolding before me.
I gently took the book from her bag, walked to the register, and paid for it myself. When I handed it back, her relief was instant. She thanked me repeatedly, then reached into her pocket and placed a small silver brooch in my hand.
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