Roots and Fire

The jewelry shop smelled the same.

Metal, polish, old wood, and memory.

Vera stood across the street in a charcoal coat, hands buried in her pockets, eyes fixed on the narrow storefront that had once been her entire world. The bell above the door chimed as a customer stepped out, laughing, oblivious.

She hadn’t been back in eight years.

Not since the night she’d closed the register with shaking hands and realized that survival sometimes meant leaving pieces of yourself ...