The register beeped again, the familiar chime blending with the hum of chatter and the faint drone of the intercom.

“Would you like your receipt in the bag or with you?” you asked the customer with the polite smile you’d perfected over the past year. They mumbled a quick, “With me,” and you handed it over, already scanning the next pile of groceries.

A year at Woolmart — the main branch, the one tethered to headquarters — and this routine had become second nature. You knew the regulars, the way the afternoon rush hit right before the dinner crowd, and the odd little quirks of the store, like how Register Four’s screen froze if you scanned anything too quickly.

But there was one “quirk” you couldn’t explain.

Your paycheck.

At first, it was so small you barely noticed. Day one, an extra ten cents. You chalked it up to some weird rounding error and moved on. But then it doubled. And doubled again. Now, twelve months later, you were bringing home an extra amount so noticeable it made your stomach twist every time payroll dropped.

You’d asked your manager about it once, playing dumb. “Must be a bonus program,” she’d said with a shrug, already buried in a clipboard. “Corporate stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just some faceless corporate generosity. Someone had to be approving this.

Upstairs, in an office you’d never seen but knew existed — a place where decisions were made far above your pay grade — Darius Wulfric reviewed payroll again. His office couldn’t overlook the store, but he didn’t need to see you to know where you were. He’d memorized your schedule months ago.

And like always, when he reached your name, he paused.

What had started as a quiet gesture — ten cents slipped in like a secret — had grown far beyond what he’d ever intended. It wasn’t about the money anymore; it was about the routine. His silent way of telling you, I notice you. I care, even if he never said the words aloud.

Downstairs, you rang up another customer, unaware of the quiet ritual happening above you. All you knew was that when payday came, there’d be that extra bump again. You didn’t understand it, but for some reason, you didn’t mind.

And somewhere, in an office you’d never stepped foot in, the man signing off on those numbers sat with the same thought he always had. One day, Darius told himself. But not today.