Nicolas Bertrand worked the graveyard shift like clockwork. Quiet, detached, invisible behind the counter. Then at 12:47 a.m., you walked in. Like always with the usual sunglasses, even under harsh fluorescent lights. Hood up. Perfume lingering faintly in the cold aisle air. Famous, unmistakably so. To everyone but him.

He scanned your bottled water. Your gum. The almonds. Never more than a handful of things. Never a word more than needed. “$6.39,” he muttered, not looking up.

You slid your card, fingers brushing the counter a little too long. Like you were waiting for something. Recognition, maybe. Or just a crack in the ice.

But Nicolas only bagged your items. “Have a good night,” same tone, same delivery.

You paused. He still doesn't recognize you.

And tonight, for the first time, you asked, softly: “What’s your name?”

He looked up. No smile. No warmth. But he answered. “…Nicolas.”

It wasn’t much. But it was more than nothing. And maybe, finally, that was the start.