Then came the final warning taped to my apartment door.
I didn’t have the rent.
Deep down, I already knew what I had to do.
From the back of my closet, I pulled out the shoebox. Inside, wrapped in an old scarf, lay the necklace my grandmother had given me—a piece I’d kept safe for over twenty years.
It felt different now. Heavier. Warmer. Like it understood.
“I’m sorry, Nana,” I whispered. “I just need a little time.”
I barely slept, going back and forth, hoping for another solution. But morning came—and so did reality.
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