to remember how to let go.
PART 1 — The Stranger Beneath the Shelf
The first sound was small enough to ignore: cardboard dragging across metal.
I was halfway down the pasta aisle, comparing two jars of sauce, when I heard it. A young woman in a green store polo was crouched beneath the shelves, arranging packages with her back to me. Above her, an overfilled carton had begun to tilt.
For one suspended second, it seemed possible the box would stop.
Then its lower corner slid beyond the shelf.
“Hey—watch
