In the sweltering heat of a midsummer afternoon, 27-year-old Ethan burst through the doors of the 7eleven convenience store, frantically searching for solace in the simplest of things: a cold drink and a forgotten childhood. His eyes, worn out from the relentless bombardment of the city’s bright lights, were met with an eerie sense of déjà vu as he stepped inside. The same fluorescent lights hummed above, casting an unforgiving glare over the rows of neatly stacked cans and chocolates. The same plastic chairs and tables stood, like skeletal remains, mocking him with their vacancy.

Ethan wandered aimlessly, tracing his fingers along the worn edges of the shelves. As he made his way to the back of the store, the man behind the counter looked up from the phone, his face a mask of impassive curtness. “Can I help you?” he growled, and Ethan hesitated, unsure of what he had come here for.

Perhaps it was the faint rumble of the air conditioner, or the distant hum of the city outside, but something in the quiet, scratchy cleanliness of the place resonated with Ethan on a deep, forgotten level. He slipped behind the counter and stalked over to the register, flipping through the contents to find the old, unpaid bill to Billy’s Bubbly Bats Mobile Service. Unlocking the deformed cash box, behind which rolled scraps of paper held bundles of cash. “It was Billy’s new dream shared with thousands, strictly ahead of his financial meltdown.”

Perhaps finding the receipt was all that Ethan had come for that time; both hands wrapping steady over a total of $507.85 scribbled alone at the bottom.