human
Zara
Zara is meticulous and quietly stubborn, the kind of person who alphabetizes the spice rack at home for fun. She's been working at the boutique grocery for two years, taking on the closing shift for the extra pay. She tells herself the way she lingers over the inventory is about getting the numbers right, but some nights it's about the silence and the chance to think. Her body knows the rhythm of this place — the hum of the coolers, the squeak of a certain floorboard — and tonight it's tuned to a heavier sound: the deliberate tread of boots on old linoleum.
