Omens.
I had never believed in them until the day my life changed.
My mom had hailed from a tiny town in Albania, and she was superstitious to the bone.
She used to say, “Keep your head down. Work hard, so the devil doesn’t come to collect.”
I’d laugh and tell her I didn’t believe in that stuff. She’d furrow her brow, wag her finger, and say, “Qoftë larg!”
Don’t jinx it.
Her words had echoed as I parked my bike and headed into the antique shop—the same one I was caught shoplifting from the year before and kneeled for two hours as punishment.
It was February twenty-eighth, and it should be freezing cold in Chicago, but instead, it was the opposite.
Sunlight broke through the clouds, glinting off patches of dirty snow. The world was still an endless wash of gray, but it was warm. Too warm.
And yet, nature hid. No birds. No wind. Just the world—trapped in silence.
Mom would call it an omen, a harbinger of something.
I told myself, the devil could come collect me after that day, because it was Elise’s birthday.
The tiny doorbell rang as I stepped inside. The same clerk was behind the counter. He narrowed his eyes, adjusted his glasses, his lips twistinginto a sneer.
“You again, pretty boy? Wanna kneel again until your knees are raw? Didn’t get enough last time?”
“No, sir.” I raised my hands. “I’ve got cash this time.”
I pulled out the wad of crumpled bills from my jeans pocket. Guilt pinched my chest knowing these were all the savings I made from the sweatshop, plus the small stash I found under the bed.
It was reckless—spending all this money on something that wouldn’t feed little Beatrice or fill our stomachs.
But I deserved to be selfish for once, didn’t I?
I’d been working hard, taking care of my younger siblings while Mom and Dad worked double shifts. I’d scrimped and saved.
I was a “good man,” as Dad would say.
I deserved to do something for myself.
That “something” being the green pendant hanging on the mannequin near the door—the same one I tried to steal the day I met her. Elise later marveled at it and said it matched the color of my eyes.
Her beloved music box was locked up tight inside a glass case. I didn’t know much about jewelry or fancy stuff, but from the way those gems sparkled, I could tell there was no way I could ever afford to buy it for her. But this little green pendant—lab grown, maybe—I just might have enough.
“I want that necklace,” I had told the clerk.
He eyed me, then my rolled-up, sweat-creased bills.
The clerk checked each one—fives, tens—all fruits of my labor, blood, sweat, and tears. He examined them like I ran a print shop. I snorted. If I could counterfeit, I’d never have to steal.
I swallowed my impatience as he counted. Finally, he shrugged, lifted the necklace from the mannequin, and dangled it on his fingertip.
Bubbles prickled in my chest. I imagined Elise’s eyes lighting up when she saw it.
“Does it come with a box? One with a bow on top?”
The clerk sneered. “This is a clearance item. Whoever the chick is, I’m sure she’ll be happy. After all, her standards can’t be high—picking a guy like you.”
