The violin still echoed faintly in her ears as Noel glanced at the time.
"Shit."
She scrambled to her feet, pajamas clinging to her skin as she rushed to change. She put on a white pullover hoodie, black leggings with pockets and white slip on sneakers.
Her bread factory shift started in twenty minutes. She grabbed her keys, and bolted out the door. The city was loud today—horns, sirens, the hum of life moving too fast.
She arrived at the factory breathless, sweat clinging to her neck. But when she swiped her badge at the gate, the screen blinked red.
ACCESS DENIED.
Noel frowned, tried again. Same result.
Then the door opened. A woman stumbled out, sobbing. It was Marlene—shift supervisor, mother of three, always wore purple scrubs under her apron.
"They laid us off," Marlene choked. "All of us. No warning. Just—done."
Noel's mouth went dry. "What?"
"They said the company's downsizing. Moving operations out of state. I got $750 in savings, Noel. That's it. How am I supposed to feed my kids? My husband can't work. He's in a wheelchair. I got bills stacked to the ceiling."
Noel's knees buckled. She collapsed onto the concrete in front of the factory door, the cold seeping through her jeans. Her hands trembled. Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and silent.
"I've been with this company for eleven years," she whispered. "They just lay everyone off like that?"
She hugged herself tightly, rocking slightly. Her breath hitched. She had nothing saved. Her account was dry. Her car note $700.00 was due in two days. No severance ,
No warning. Just a locked door and a red screen.
The city didn't pause. Trucks roared past. A train screeched in the distance. But Noel sat there, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to hold together everything that was falling apart.
Noel walked slowly to the nearby bus stop, her boots heavy against the cracked sidewalk. The air smelled like fried food and engine smoke. Across the street, a crowd had gathered outside another company—angry voices rising like steam.
"I'VE WORKED HERE FOR 35 YEARS!" a woman shouted, her fists clenched, eyes wild with disbelief.
"I GOT FIVE KIDS TO FEED!" a man barked, his voice cracking.
"DON'T THIS COMPANY UNDERSTAND HOW HIGH THE COST OF LIVING IS?" another woman cried, clutching a folder of resumes like a lifeline.
A younger man kicked a trash can. "Robots. AI. They're taking our jobs."
Noel sighed, her breath shaky. They were right. Every word. The world was shifting, and people like her—people who showed up, worked hard, stayed loyal—were being erased.
The yellow city bus pulled up with a groan. Noel climbed the stairs, showed her worn transit pass to the driver, and took a seat near the front. Her hands trembled in her lap.
She stared out the window as the city blurred past—graffiti walls, corner stores, kids skipping school. Her thoughts tangled.
"I was making $19.50 at the factory," she murmured to herself. "It wasn't much, but it got me by."
She blinked hard, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"I'm grateful my older cousin pays my electric, water, and trash bill."
It was the only reason she still had lights. Still had heat. Still had a place to cry in private.
The bus rattled on, but Noel sat frozen, wondering what came next. The job market was a maze—low pay, high demands, five years of experience for entry-level work. She had no degree. No backup plan. Just a house full of memories and a car note due in two days.