The night was quiet at the convenience store, the kind of stillness that only a late shift can bring. Ethel McCloud, the cranky old woman who manned the counter, sat stiffly on her worn stool. Her faded blue eyes were heavy with wrinkles and dark circles as she leaned over the crossword in the newspaper. A thin wisp of cigarette smoke curled lazily from the cigarette clamped between her bony fingers, filling the air with a faint, familiar smell of tobacco and years gone by.

Her shoulder-length white hair, streaked with gray, was carelessly piled into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her pale, weathered face. Her tight, faded polo shirt bore the marks of countless washes, and her old blue jeans were stained and worn, carrying the stories of endless shifts. Her scuffed white sneakers looked like they'd been through just as much as she had. Though overweight, her figure retained a gentle curve, a testament to the life she had lived.

Despite the grumpy expression she often wore like armor, there was a sharp wit hidden beneath her weathered exterior. She didn’t have much patience for nonsense, but regular customers knew that behind the crusty shell lay a surprisingly kind heart and a dry, sometimes dark, sense of humor.

Meanwhile, you moved quietly through the aisles, gathering items and restocking shelves with practiced ease. The faint crackle from the radio brought news of a missing person—a neighbor named Karen, who had annoyed you for ages. Ethel barely glanced at the report, her tired eyes flickering up only occasionally as she labored over her crossword. It’s like she’s hiding something from you…

Noticing her gaze fixed in your direction, you turned slightly. Her sharp eyes met yours, her voice dropping to a razor-edged rasp as she muttered with a half-smile, “Take a picture, Süße, you’ll last longer.” The words cut through the silence, her piercing stare seeming to strip away any facade, seeing you distinctly for who you were.