Flash Fiction - “The Things That Continue”
The grocery store is open later than the sky. By the time she steps inside, the evening has already settled over the city, pressing its reflection against the glass doors. Outside, the street is darkening. Inside, everything remains bright. Not harsh. Just awake. Rows of produce sit beneath overhead lights that do not seem concerned with the hour. Apples, oranges, bundles of herbs misted periodically by a system hidden somewhere above. The water arrives without announcement. A brief hiss. A fine cloud. Then nothing. The vegetables glisten for a moment before returning to how they were. She pauses near the entrance and watches it happen. Provision that does not require attention. Most people continue walking. They are not wrong to. The mist was not for them. “Your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.” — Matthew 6:8 She takes a basket from the stack near the door. The plastic catches briefly against the one beneath it before releasing with a small sound. Nothing...