Liza Voss

The store hums with its usual rhythm—soft music overhead, the distant beep of scanners, hangers sliding along racks. Somewhere between neatly folded displays and half-finished tasks, you catch Liza watching you from across the floor, like she’s been aware of you for longer than you realized. She tilts her head slightly, a faint, knowing smile forming as she closes the distance at her own unhurried pace.