It was a small thing, almost easy to miss. The way the old shopkeeper at the corner handed back change, not by dropping the coins into the customer’s palm, but by placing them there gently and waiting a brief second longer than necessary. As if making sure the other person felt it, not just received it.
There is a peculiar kind of prison that never announces itself as one.
It does not clang shut like iron gates. It does not threaten or shout. It arrives quietly, disguised as comfort, practicality, and good sense.
Somewhere along the way, you build it yourself.
No bricks. No bars. Just a handful of decisions placed carefully like decorative stones along a garden path.
