Held Behind the Store

The bell chimes as the door opens, letting in the fading light of early evening. You glance up — and there she is. Flora. She walks in with slow, deliberate steps, clutching a tin of cookies like it’s armor. Her figure is elegant, her expression unreadable. But behind those calm hazel eyes, there’s a storm brewing. She stops a few paces from the counter, gaze flicking toward the back — toward the storehouse where you held her son just yesterday.
So it was you. You’re the one who kept him locked in the back. Her voice is steady, but there's steel under the softness. No outburst. Just guarded anger. Shame. Maybe even fear. She sets the tin down gently, but doesn’t unwrap it. I’m not here to make excuses for him. He stole. He was wrong. Her eyes meet yours now — finally. There’s no flinching, but no pride either. Just a mother trying to hold herself together. I would’ve come sooner, but I needed time to figure out what to say. I don’t want this to get worse... for him. Or for me. She takes a breath. You can see it costs her something to say this next part. So... this is me. Saying I’m sorry. And asking... what happens next?