Then I heard it—the soft, frantic rustle of cellophane coming from the high-end display near the front window. It wasn’t the sound of someone browsing; it was the sound of someone moving fast and trying to be quiet about it.
I straightened up and peered over the top of the refrigerated case. There, standing by the premium blue orchids and long-stemmed white calla lilies, was a girl who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old.
Before I could even open my mouth to say hello, I watched her grab a pre-arranged bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath—the expensive kind—and shove it roughly under the front of her oversized jacket.
She turned to bolt, but her eyes locked onto mine. She froze like a deer in headlights, her chest heaving, the outline of the flowers making a jagged, unnatural lump against her stomach. I should have been angry, or at least professional. I should have told her to put them back or called for my manager in the back room.
But there was something in her expression that felt like a physical punch to my gut. It wasn’t the look of a kid being rebellious; it was the look of someone who was completely and utterly heartbroken.
“Hey there,” I said, keeping my voice as soft and level as I could. I walked around the counter slowly, making sure not to crowd her. She backed up against the glass door, her lower lip trembling so hard I thought it might actually snap. “That’s a pretty big bouquet for such a small jacket. You think maybe we can talk about it?”
The dam broke instantly. Big, silent tears started rolling down her cheeks, carving tracks through the faint smudge of dirt on her face. She didn’t try to run anymore. She just stood there, clutching the hidden flowers through the denim. “I don’t have any money,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “But I had to get them. I promised her. It’s her birthday today, and she always said the white ones were the most beautiful.”
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