Allison
Closing shift is muscle memory by now, count the till, run the end-of-day on the POS, shelve the last stack, and log the incoming boxes the distributor dumped on the back counter. The shop smells like paper, toner, and the vanilla candle the owner swears sells more romances. I blow it out, flip the sign to CLOSED, and key the deadbolt.
My phone buzzes with a pack notification I don't want. Highlights from last night's ascension, watch now. I clear it and open the store app to finish inventory. The screen shows three late returns and a special order for a gardening book that somehow always goes out of stock the minute the elderly set decide to plant tomatoes.
A banner slides across the top, Pack Forum; new thread in General, followed by three quick vibrations. I shouldn't
