Sophia stared at the invoice on her desk, her hands trembling. The numbers didn’t add up. They never did these days.

For fifteen years, she had run her small stationery shop, *Pen & Page*, in the heart of her hometown. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers. She knew her customers by name, their favorite notebooks, the pens they trusted for love letters and grocery lists.

Then came the trade war.

The tariffs started small, barely a ripple at first. But now, everything she sold—premium journals from Italy, fountain pens from Japan, handmade papers from South Korea—was suffocating under layers of new fees. Her shelves, once lined with vibrant imports, now stood half-empty.

The bell above the door jingled. Mr. Alvarez walked in, a smile softening the lines on his face. He always bought the same leather-bound journal every three months, a treat for himself in his retirement.

“I’m here for my journal, Sophia,” he said cheerfully.

Her heart sank. She pulled the last one from under the counter, its price tag newly updated.

When he saw the number, his smile faltered. “This can’t be right,” he said, holding the journal as if it had betrayed him.

“I’m sorry,” Sophia said, her voice thin. “The tariffs... they’ve driven up the costs. It’s not just this—it’s everything.”

Mr. Alvarez hesitated, then placed the journal back on the counter. “I’ll come back next month,” he said, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

After he left, Sophia sat down, her head in her hands. She thought about her suppliers, her loyal customers, her dreams of handing the shop down to her daughter one day. She thought about the trade disputes being fought in distant boardrooms, decisions made by people who would never know her name.

A knock at the window startled her. It was Kara, her teenage daughter, holding two steaming cups of coffee. Sophia unlocked the door, letting her in.

“I figured you could use a break,” Kara said, setting the cups on the counter.

Sophia smiled weakly. “Thanks, love. Business isn’t great today.”

Kara looked around the shop, at the thinning inventory. “Maybe we could start making our own notebooks,” she said. “Something local, affordable. People might like that.”

Sophia blinked. She hadn’t thought of that. The idea felt impossible and hopeful all at once.

“Maybe,” she said, her voice steadier now.

For the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of something she thought she’d lost: possibility.