Chapter 1: Eyes Across the Aisle
The fluorescent lights buzzed. A high-pitched whine Greta usually tuned out. Today, it drilled into her temples. Beer. Milk. Eggs. Bread. The conveyor belt slid the same predictable parade. Beep. Beep. Beep. Her fingers moved on autopilot, finding barcodes, tapping the worn keys. The cash drawer pinged open. Coins clattered as she counted pennies and euros for the fourth time that hour. Five euro, thirty-seven cents short. Again. Herr Schneider’s order. He always paid exact change, always looked at her receipts. Her cheeks burned.
The automatic doors hissed open, slicing through the stale, refrigerated air with a gust of damp chill. Rain. Greta didn’t look up immediately. Just another customer escaping the drizzle. But the footsteps sounded wrong. Heavy. Unsteady. Dragging.
She glanced up.
A girl stood just inside the doors, haloed by the grey afternoon light bleeding in. Not a customer like the others. Younger. Maybe eighteen. Her dark, rain-slicked hair clung to her cheeks and neck. Eyes, wide and wary, scanned the brightly lit aisles like she was checking exits. They landed on Greta. Held. A startling blue, sharp as chipped ice against skin the colour of pale honey. Mud streaked her worn black jeans, caking the heavy, scuffed boots that squeaked on the linoleum. A faded band t-shirt peeked from under a leather jacket – real leather, Greta noted, not the pleather the teenagers usually wore – but the right sleeve was ripped clean across the shoulder seam. Ragged edges of lining poked out. The girl hugged herself, rocking slightly on her heels. Exhaustion radiated off her, thick as the smell of wet denim and something else… ozone? Or maybe just the rain.
The mundane drone of the supermarket – the hum of freezers, the tinny Muzak, Frau Becker complaining about the price of butter to the deli counter – faded into a peculiar, ringing silence for Greta. Just her, the buzzing lights, and the girl. Those eyes.
The girl blinked, breaking the contact. She shuffled further in, leaving a trail of muddy boot prints. Her gaze darted towards the snack aisle.
"Can I help you?" Greta’s voice sounded too loud, too bright in the sudden quiet she felt. Forced cheer. Cashier voice.
The girl flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible recoil. She stopped moving. Stared at the floor near Greta’s register. "Just… looking."
Her voice was low, husky. Berlin accent, sharpened at the edges. Not local. Not even close. Greta noticed her knuckles were scraped raw. One had a smear of dried blood.
"You're soaked," Greta said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. Too personal. Too much.
A flicker of something – annoyance? Defiance? – crossed the girl’s face. She lifted her chin slightly. "Paying for the air in here too?"
Greta flushed. Right. Shut up. Do your job. She fumbled with the cash tray, dropping a fifty-cent piece. It rolled under the counter. She ignored it. Frau Becker was still droning on at the deli. Herr Schneider was scrutinizing his receipt.
Silence stretched. The girl shifted her weight. Water dripped from her jacket hem onto the floor. Plink. Plink. She stared resolutely at a display of discounted energy drinks.
Greta scanned a bag of onions. Beep. The silence pressed in. Awkward. Heavy. She couldn't leave it. "There's… there's a restroom. Around the corner. If you need to dry off." She gestured vaguely towards the back. "Paper towels."
The girl’s gaze snapped back to her. Suspicion warred with a desperate sort of weariness in those blue eyes. She seemed to weigh Greta’s offer, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she turned and walked stiffly towards the back of the store, disappearing down the aisle marked 'Cleaning Supplies & Toiletries'.
Greta let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She finished Herr Schneider’s transaction, her hands unsteady. "Have a good day, Herr Schneider."
He grunted, folding his receipt precisely, and shuffled off.
The minutes crawled. Greta restocked gum packets. Wiped down the conveyor belt. The muddy footprints near the door were already drying into smears. Where was she? Had she slipped out the back? Greta felt an absurd pang of disappointment.
Then she reappeared. Walking more slowly now. Her hair was roughly towel-dried, a dark, tangled mess. The mud was mostly gone from her face, revealing sharp cheekbones and a faint bruise blooming near her left temple. She’d avoided the restroom mirror, Greta guessed. She stopped near the fruit display. Hesitated. Her hand hovered over a bunch of bananas. She picked the smallest one. Held it like it might bite.
She walked to the register. Placed the single banana on the belt. Didn't meet Greta's eyes.
Beep. The sound was absurdly loud for one piece of fruit. "Forty-nine cents," Greta said softly.
The girl dug a hand into the pocket of her jeans. Pulled out a few crumpled coins. A one-euro piece, a fifty-cent, a five-cent. She placed them on the counter. Her fingers trembled slightly.
Greta took the euro and the fifty-cent. "That's too much." She pushed the five-cent coin back towards her. "Just ninety-five. Keep the five."
The girl stared at the coin. Then, for the first time, a flicker of something other than wariness crossed her face. Amusement? Irony? It was gone in a blink. She scooped up the five-cent piece and pocketed it. "Thanks."
Greta put the banana into a small paper bag. Handed it over. Their fingers brushed. Cold. The girl snatched the bag.
"Are you…" Greta started, the question dying on her lips. Are you okay? Stupid. Do you need help? Presumptuous. Dangerous, maybe. "Is that all?" Cashier voice again. Safe.
The girl met her gaze again. That intense blue, searching Greta's face now. Lingering on her eyes. Warm eyes, Greta knew people said. Kind eyes. She felt suddenly exposed. The girl’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. A crack in the armour. Then it was gone, shuttered.
"Yeah." The girl turned to leave. She paused at the automatic doors. Hesitated. Glanced back. Just once. A quick, unreadable look over her shoulder. Then she pushed through into the grey drizzle.
The doors hissed shut. The supermarket sounds rushed back in – the freezer hum, the Muzak, the chatter. Greta stared at the spot where the girl had stood. At the faint, drying smudges her boots had left. She picked up the fifty-cent coin the girl had given her. It felt cold. She noticed a tiny smear of mud, or maybe dried blood, on its edge.
Her gaze drifted to the doors again. Through the rain-streaked glass, she saw the girl walking quickly, head down, shoulders hunched against the weather. Heading away from the town centre. Towards the old industrial park. Towards nowhere good.
And as she walked, the ripped shoulder seam of her leather jacket gaped wider under the rain’s assault. Like a wound.