A week later, a new woman came in—hoodie, ponytail, sleep-rimmed eyes. She hovered, then breathed out and picked up a pair of white sneakers with faint creases at the toe. I watched her turn them over like she was reading tea leaves. I walked toward her with a bag and a note that said, “Someone thinks you’re worth it,” and we made a space together at the table, two strangers bound by an old story that keeps being told, thank God, by people who insist on it.
