Aria leaned against the counter of her empty shop, staring at the shelves that once overflowed with imported teas and spices. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon—a reminder of better days. Outside, the neon sign flickered weakly: “Global Goods Market – Est. 2047.”

She traced the chipped edge of her register, her thoughts spiraling as the latest tariff announcement replayed in her mind. The government called it a "necessary step" to protect local industries, but for Aria, it felt like a death sentence.

“Thirty percent,” she muttered, shaking her head. Import costs had doubled overnight, and her loyal customers, already stretched thin, couldn’t stomach the price hikes.

The bell above the door jingled, startling her. A man in a faded coat shuffled in, his face shadowed by the dim light.

“Are you still selling the Darjeeling?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

Aria smiled faintly. “You’re in luck. Last tin. But…” She hesitated. “It’s… 180 credits now.”

The man’s expression tightened, disappointment flashing across his face. He pulled out a thin wallet and counted crumpled bills and a few coins. He was short—like everyone these days.

“Forget it,” he muttered, turning to leave.

“Wait,” Aria said, her voice cracking. She reached for the tin and placed it in his hands. “Take it. No charge.”

He looked at her, stunned. “You can’t do that. You’ve got a business to run.”

She forced a smile. “Not for much longer, it seems. Might as well go out on a good note.”

The man hesitated, then nodded, gratitude softening his features. “Thank you,” he whispered before disappearing into the cold night.

Aria locked the door behind him and turned to face the emptiness of her store. The shelves, the register, the memories—all of it felt heavy with finality. She had poured years into this place, sacrificed weekends, vacations, even relationships, to build something meaningful.

Her phone buzzed with a new notification: “Effective immediately, all imported goods face a 40% tariff.”

Aria exhaled, long and slow, and picked up the “For Sale” sign she had tucked behind the counter. Tomorrow, she’d place it in the window.

As she turned off the lights, the smell of cinnamon lingered, bittersweet and fading, like a memory of a dream she could no longer afford to keep.