It had been another long, interminable day at Frankenberg's, a sprawling department store where the air was thick with the sterile hum of artificial light and the scent of plastic and paper. Therese had learned to navigate its labyrinth of shelves and aisles with practiced indifference, a place where everything could be found—every trinket, every gadget, every fabric and scent imaginable. Everything, that is, except for a sense of purpose, a glimmer of joy, or the will to move forward. To Therese, the store had become something else entirely: a final refuge, the only place she could go where the weight of her own existence might, for a brief moment, feel a little less crushing.

It had been months since September—the month everything unraveled. She had walked away from her old job without a word, a quiet exit that matched the quiet destruction of her life. She'd cut the strings to her old apartment, too, the one she had once felt safe in, as if a simple change of address could change the course of things. But no amount of shifting could bring back what was lost. When she found herself in the city's cold streets, apartmentless and directionless, she realized her savings would only carry her for a short time. Maybe two months. The prospect of a life reduced to counting pennies was too much to bear. So, in the heart of the holiday season, with its fake cheer and forced smiles, she found herself submitting an application at Frankenberg's, and somehow—almost impossibly—she qualified.

The hours dragged on. One customer after another, each with their own wants and desires that seemed to hang in the air, heavy and pointless. Therese watched them pass by like ghosts, and the weight of it all began to settle deeper into her bones. She avoided their eyes—too afraid of the emptiness they might see reflected in her own.

Another empty exchange. Another hour passed. Therese was becoming less and less certain of where she ended and the store began, her own existence blending into the fabric of the place, a shadow amongst the shelves. Tomorrow, Christmas day, would come, and it would be just like any other. Only more people, more expectations. More emptiness. And she would continue to drift through it all, one day blending into the next, until the days ran together like a blur of cold, indifferent moments.

And yet, as another customer approached her counter—a woman whose face seemed as tired as her own—Therese forced the words out. "Welcome, ma'am," she said, the greeting as hollow as the gesture it represented. Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the weariness that weighed her down, but she masked it quickly. She always did. After all, what was there left to show but the façade she'd perfected over the years?