The black jacket rested heavily on my bed, its presence impossible to ignore even three days after it landed in my life. The dry cleaner had returned it just yesterday, the quick wash service costing more than I cared to think about. It was a silent reminder of the stranger who had dropped it into my world, a fragment of a life I barely understood.

Work beckoned in just a few hours. One of the regular employees had called in sick, and Mr. Darlton had asked me to fill in. The clock read seven in the morning, but my mind was tangled with thoughts of the man who had left the jacket behind.

Hal.

I ran my fingers through my unruly hair, exhaling a quiet sigh. How was I supposed to deal with this? Should I try returning the jacket? Keep it? The man didn’t even know my name. Maybe I could sell it—there was no doubt it looked expensive, sleek and impeccably tailored.

Curiosity gnawed at me, but fear kept me from checking the tag. What if it turned out to be some designer brand worth a fortune? The thought alone gave me a mild panic.

Shaking my head, I pushed myself up from the bed. There was no use getting lost in this dilemma. I had to get ready for work. Besides, the promise of free food from Mr. Darlton was a definite bonus to look forward to.

A quick shower cleared some of the fog from my mind. I pulled on a pair of freshly washed blue jeans and a baby blue, short-sleeved shirt that felt soft against my skin. My hair, however, refused to cooperate; no matter how much I tried, it went this way and that. Eventually, I surrendered and pulled my trusty beanie over my head.

Breakfast was simple—Cocoa Pops with milk. I wondered idly if I should pack some to bring into work today and maybe sneak over to the Janvier building during my lunch break. I could leave it with the receptionist, but the thought of even stepping inside that gleaming tower intimidated me. I didn’t belong in a place where everyone looked so polished and confident.

Once, I had passed by the Janvier building during a lunch break. It was buzzing with suited women in sharp pencil skirts, men with neatly pressed socks and polished shoes, ID badges catching the sunlight as they moved with assured strides. Their hair was immaculate, their expressions sharp and self-possessed. I felt like a shadow haunting the edges of their world.

With a sigh, I dumped my empty bowl into the sink and gathered my bag, double-checking that my phone and wallet were inside. As I left the apartment, I found myself humming the SpongeBob theme song—a ridiculous earworm that had been stuck in my head since I woke up.

The bus stop was crowded; people sat and stood close together, their faces a mix of impatience and fatigue. I kept to the side, trying to avoid any awkward greetings from neighbors I barely knew and wouldn’t want to know better. When the bus arrived, I jumped on quickly and found a seat near the window.

Only then did I realize the jacket wasn’t with me. I hadn’t taken it along.

“Maybe that’s a sign,” I thought with a small, reluctant smile, settling back against the cool window pane. The bus was far from quiet; a woman at the back tried to soothe a crying baby, nearby conversations hummed along with music leaking from a tiny earphone speaker. Usually, the ride passed quickly, but today every second felt stretched taut with anticipation and unease.

Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of a Thursday commute, or the crowded bus, or simply that I had nothing to distract me—no music, no book, just the endless loop of that silly cartoon tune in my head. With nothing else to do, I began counting the number of white cars we passed.

By the time I reached my stop, I was nearly at fifty. The short walk to the store was punctuated by heavy sighs and a nagging sense of loneliness. My shift was a short one today, just nine to one, and I looked forward to going home afterward—maybe watching a movie and sneaking that truffle from the fridge.

When I arrived, the familiar bell chimed softly, but Mr. Stanley Darlton wasn’t behind the counter. Instead, Charles—Stanley’s husband—greeted me with a warm smile. Charles was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped close and a beard meticulously trimmed. Agatha, my closest friend at work, often called him a “perfect Daddy,” which made me cringe at the odd mental image it conjured. The Darltons were like family to me, but imagining them as anything other than that was unsettling.

“Good morning, Mr. Darlton,” I said, dropping my bag by the door and tying on my apron.

Charles laughed, shaking his head. “When Stanley told me you still call him Mr. Darlton, I almost didn’t believe it.”

My cheeks flushed red, and I looked down to hide my embarrassment.

“Repeat after me: Stanley,” Charles said, a teasing smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Stanley,” I repeated, a small chuckle escaping me.

“Good. Now say it again.”

“Stanley,” I said with a grin.

“Excellent! Now, what’s my name?”

For a moment, I hesitated, my tongue pressing against my teeth as I searched for words. “Charles.”

“Perfect! See? That wasn’t so hard. Now, come here—gimme a hug.”

Without hesitation, I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around him. His shoulder was solid beneath my cheek, and I squeezed tightly. Charles was always so tactile—handshakes, pats on the shoulder, ruffling hair—but I liked it. It grounded me.

“How have you been?” he asked as I stepped back.

“Good. Work and movies keep me busy,” I answered honestly.

“That’s wonderful. Stanley packed you some sandwiches and sauces.” He gestured towards a paper bag resting on the sofa. I almost gasped, hurrying over to examine the contents. Three packs of sauces gleamed beside carefully wrapped sandwiches, a feast for someone like me who often went hungry.

“No drooling,” Charles warned with a smile. “Get to work. I’ll put the food in the office fridge.”

I pouted but knew better than to argue.

Charles patted my shoulder as I moved toward the counter. He had already restocked the shelves, so my job was simple—stand behind the register and handle the customers.

The morning passed in a blur of scanning items and handing out change. Some customers were brusque and indifferent; others offered a thank you that warmed an otherwise lonely day. Thoughts of Hal and the jacket faded into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of the store.

The radio played softly, and I found myself humming along, occasionally swaying in my seat to the music.

“Oh, she’s sweet but a psycho / A beautiful psycho…”

The shop was quiet, and boredom crept in until a sudden noise startled me—a book and a box of Maltesers dropped onto the counter.

“It’s just me,” Charles said, grabbing a pack of gum from the rack nearby. “You looked like you could use this.”

“Thank you,” I said, picking up the book—Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan. The bright pink title caught my eye, and I flipped it over to read the synopsis.

“There’s also a movie, if you prefer,” Charles added.

“I think I’ll read the book first,” I replied, clutching it to my chest. “Thanks again.”

“I’m heading home now—Stanley needs my help with something—but I’ll be back by twelve-thirty,” Charles said. I nodded; I had nowhere else to be.

“Take your time.” His smile was gentle as he waved and stepped out, leaving me with my new book and a soft soundtrack.

I had to put the book down a few times to help customers, but otherwise, I was completely absorbed in the witty, clever writing. Time slipped away until I didn’t hear the door open or the subtle clearing of a throat.

Startled, I snapped the book shut and looked up, forcing a polite smile.

But the words caught in my throat when I saw who stood there.

Hal.

My eyes blinked rapidly, my mouth opening and closing without sound. He wore a crisp white shirt with three buttons undone, perfectly pressed grey slacks, and polished shoes that caught the light. His dark hair was swept back from his face, and his brown eyes were fixed intently on me.

The air between us thickened, a quiet tension hanging in the little store. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice. “H-How can I help you?”

He smiled subtly, the kind of smile that carried promises and questions. “I thought I’d find you here.”

My heart pounded. The jacket, the unanswered questions, the strange sense of belonging and unease—all swirled in that moment like an unfinished conversation waiting to be completed.

“I—uh,” I stammered, suddenly aware of the smallness of the store and the vast gulf between our worlds.

Hal’s gaze softened. “I don’t want to rush you, Jesse. But I want you to know I’m here.”

His words settled over me like a tentative bridge, reaching into the quiet corners of my guarded heart. I nodded slowly, the first spark of something new flickering within me.

“Maybe… maybe we could talk?” I ventured, my voice barely above a whisper.

Hal’s smile widened just a fraction. “I’d like that.”

As the store hummed softly around us, the black jacket lay folded neatly on the counter—a symbol of unanswered questions and the delicate balance between trust and vulnerability that lay ahead.

For the first time in a long while, I felt the stirrings of something hopeful beneath the surface.