All the rules I’d been trained to follow—call the police, file a report, follow protocol—suddenly felt cruel and hollow.
I took the book from her bag, walked to the register, and paid for it myself.
She stared at me like I’d performed a miracle.
“Thank you,” she breathed. Then, before I could react, she hugged me—tight, desperate, like she was holding onto the last safe thing in the world.
As she pulled away, she pressed something cold into my palm.
“Please,” she said. “Take this. Keep it. It’ll save you someday.”
It was a small brooch—delicate, old-fashioned, shaped like a flower with a tiny blue stone in the center. I tried to refuse, but she shook her head, already backing toward the door.
The next morning, my boss called me into his office.
He didn’t yell at first. He didn’t have to. He just turned his monitor toward me.
There I was on the security footage—handing the girl the book. Letting her leave. Breaking every rule.
“I don’t want excuses,” he snapped when I tried to speak. “You stole from this store by letting her walk out. You’re fired.”
I walked out with my box of things, feeling oddly light. Relieved, even. That job had never felt like home.
A week later, I had an interview at my dream company—one I never thought I’d actually get. On impulse, I pinned the brooch to my jacket.
The woman interviewing me froze mid-sentence.
“Where did you get that?” she asked quietly.
I told her the story.
