As I ran my fingers through her thinning gray hair, she sighed. “I used to come to salons when my husband was alive,” she murmured. “He always said I looked beautiful, no matter what. But after he passed, I just stopped.”
When I turned the mirror toward her, she gasped. For a moment, she didn’t say a word. Then her smile — small at first — spread into something radiant. Her hands went to her face. “Oh my,” she whispered, eyes welling up. “I look like… me again.”
She tried to hand me the twelve dollars, but I pushed her hand back and shook my head. “You’ve already paid,” I said softly. “Now go enjoy your son’s big day.”
That afternoon, the salon buzzed as usual. I moved from client to client, but Mirela’s face stayed in my mind. There was something about her — that mix of strength and sorrow — that stuck with me.
The next morning, I arrived to open the salon and stopped dead at the door. The entire entrance was buried in flowers — lilies, roses, carnations, even wildflowers in mason jars. They covered the floor and the counter, filling the air with a dizzying sweetness.
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