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The woman in front,

counting coins into her palm.

Each penny, a tiny pause.

Her cart held three cans of beans,

a box of instant coffee,

and one bright, bruised apple.

The conveyor belt crawled,

bringing the same few things closer,

over and over.

I could hear the soft hum of the register,

a low, constant note.

We all stood there,

a shared, contained waiting.

Just the sound of change dropping,

and the quiet truth of what we came for.