Chapter 8

ARIA’S POV —

One week....

That was how long I had been working at Magnum Supermarket — a job I never imagined I would take, a job that paid less than any job I’d had before… but life doesn’t wait for pride. Bills don’t wait. Sickness doesn’t wait. And I couldn’t afford to be jobless, not when Grandma’s hospital room smelled too much like endings.

“It’s late, and I’m still barely halfway done,” Mrs. Victoria muttered beside me, squinting at the numbers on her clipboard. “Mr. Martins will definitely cut from my salary again.”

I looked at her, really looked at her — her trembling hands, her tired eyes, her shoulders sagging under a weight she shouldn’t still have to carry at her age. She should be at home, with her grandchildren around her, not bending over shelves at nearly 9 p.m.

“Go home, Mrs. Vic,” I said gently. “I’ll finish it.”

She blinked at me, startled. “Child, you can’t. We’re leaving together. It’s too late.”

“I live close,” I reminded her. “Your house is far, and you’re exhausted. Let me do this. I’m faster.”

Her face softened into something warm and fragile. “You’re a good girl, Aria. I wish my children were as kind.”

I smiled, though it tugged at a tender place in my chest. “Goodnight, Mrs. Vic.”

She tapped my shoulder before heading out, leaving me alone with the silence of the supermarket.

I continued counting items, one row at a time, letting the repetition quiet my thoughts — until my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Nurse Jasmine.

My chest tightened immediately.

“Good evening,” I answered, already bracing myself. “Is Grandma okay?”

“She’s stable,” she said, but her tone carried the hesitation I feared. “The doctor added new medications and…”

“And they’re expensive?” I whispered.

A pause.

“Yes.”

My heart sank. I closed my eyes, swallowing the ache. My mind flashed to the blank check Mr. Magnus had given me — a check I had sworn never to touch.

But this wasn’t about pride. This was survival.

“How much?” I asked, my voice hollow.

“Five hundred dollars,” she said softly. “They’re upgraded chemo drugs. She’ll need four doses.”

My throat tightened. “Is she getting worse?”

“No, Aria. They’re just trying different options to see what works best. She isn’t deteriorating. I promise.”

Relief came slowly, like someone loosening a knot tied around my ribs.

“Alright,” I breathed. “I’ll send the money.”

The moment the call ended, I transferred eight hundred dollars — most of what I’d withdrawn from that check. I refused to take more. I refused to depend on him for anything beyond this.

I slipped the phone back into my apron and returned to the shelves, moving through the last few rows quickly. Minutes later, Mr. Martins passed by.

“Round up, Ms. Blackwell. We’re closing.”

“Yes, sir.”

I watched him leave through the glass doors, his car headlights disappearing into the night. Then came the sound I dreaded — the heavy footsteps of the security guard making his rounds.

My heart lurched.

Quietly, I kicked off my shoes and slipped into my hiding spot behind a tall promotional stand. I crouched there, hardly daring to breathe, as the guard switched off lights section by section.

Every night, the same fear.

Every night, the same prayer that I wouldn’t be caught.

When the last light went out and silence settled over the mall, I waited an extra thirty minutes before emerging. I padded toward the staff changing room, the cold tiles chilling my bare feet.

Inside, I pulled out my folded bedsheet, laying it neatly on the floor. A rolled shirt became my pillow.

This was home now.

One week of sleeping here. One week of pretending I wasn’t homeless. Stella’s friend had thrown out my things… but I didn’t blame her. People were tired of carrying other people’s burdens.

I knelt beside my makeshift bed, the darkness pressing softly around me.

“Lord…” My voice trembled, but not from fear. From hope. “I know things look bad. But I trust You. I believe You’re working, even when I don’t see it. Please… keep Grandma strong. Heal her.”

My knees ached, but my heart felt steadier.

After a while, I lay on my sheet, staring up into the deep black of the ceiling.

“Tomorrow will be better,” I whispered, even if I wasn’t sure.

But I closed my eyes and believed it anyway.