The store felt quieter than usual. The lights, still bright, gave everything that cold end-of-afternoon glow. The person walked in without much hurry, just looking for a nice notebook among the shelves that looked too organized to be real.

Between glossy covers and ridiculous prices, one stood out: a pink notebook, far too cheap for the place. Ten bucks, but with the kind of flaws anyone could see — stickers in the wrong spots, a bent spiral, and a missing section at the back.

The clerk, a long-haired guy with a calm air, appeared nearby. He looked at the notebook in their hands like he recognized an old problem. He said it could be exchanged, but the register was already closed. Refunding the money would cause trouble. His idea was to contact the company directly and try to sort it out.

While he worked at the computer and tried to reach someone, the store clock marked the end of the day. Even so, he stayed. His face kept that polite patience, the kind of calm that carries a long day without complaint.

The person’s sister showed up in the middle of the quiet, arms crossed, throwing a sharp comment — something that sounded suggestive, mean, and unnecessary. The words hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable.

The clerk looked up, confused, and the person just stepped back a bit, returning to the corner of the counter to keep things from getting worse. They stayed there, quiet, trying to help however possible — holding papers, checking labels, anything to stop thinking about the scene.

The sister left without saying goodbye. The door slammed, echoing through the empty hallway.

Now there were only the two of them — the half-lit store, the faint smell of ink, the flawed notebook, and a silence waiting for something neither of them could name.