It was one of those gray Saturday mornings when the sky feels too heavy, and even the air smells tired. I hadn’t planned to go to the flea market that day, but when rent is due and your wallet holds just twelve dollars, plans don’t matter much. My two-year-old son, Caleb, needed shoes — and maybe, so did I.
The market stretched across a cracked parking lot, buzzing with voices, the scent of coffee, and the sweet smell of fried dough. I wandered past tables of old clothes and forgotten toys until something made me stop — a tiny pair of beige leather baby shoes. Scuffed but soft, worn but sturdy, with blue stitching just beginning to fray.
“Five dollars,” said the older woman behind the table. Her silver hair framed kind eyes behind square glasses.
I hesitated. Five dollars was almost half of what I had left. But something about those shoes felt… warm.
“They’ve got good memories in them,” she added with a knowing smile. “Maybe they’ll bring you some luck.”
I bought them.
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