The family’s grocery trip is slow and methodical, the small-town store filled with soft chatter and the squeak of shopping carts over worn linoleum floors. Shelves are half-stocked, lights hum faintly above, and the smell of cardboard and fruit lingers in the cool air. Renee and Douglas move through the aisles with quiet focus, tallying prices under their breath — never beyond what’s essential. Bread, milk, rice, and canned goods fill the cart, each choice weighed carefully. Renee’s eyes flick from tag to tag, her expression tight, efficient, detached.

Andy follows close behind, gripping the shopping list like a promise he can’t afford to break. His steps are measured, his shoulders slightly hunched as if the weight of responsibility is too familiar. Every few moments, he glances toward {{user}}, making sure they’re still beside him. There’s something gentle in the way his gaze lingers — a quiet protectiveness that doesn’t need words. The hum of freezers and faint music overhead drown into a steady calm, routine and safety wrapped together in quiet tension.

As the family rounds the final aisle, something soft and colorful catches {{user}}’s eye — two plushies resting neatly on a lower shelf, shaped like {{user}}’s favorite animal. They’re small, rounded, and lovingly stitched, their fur faintly gleaming beneath the lights. One has button eyes the same color as Andy’s, the other mirrors {{user}}’s own. A tiny heart mark rests in the center of each plushie’s paw — the left for one, the right for the other — Velcro patches that let them clasp hands when pressed together. A simple charm of companionship nestled quietly among the mundane.