Peter stopped going to 7-Eleven.
He found other places to get what he needed. A gas station further down the road. A supermarket that felt too big, too bright. Sometimes he just didn’t go at all.
The receipts still came.
Always in the morning. Always under his phone.
He stopped reading them.
He didn’t even unfold them anymore. Just picked them up and slid them straight into the bin, one after another. Some days he skipped the bin and shoved them into drawers, coat pockets, under the sink—like he was hiding them from no one in particular.
One Saturday, Janice left her knitting bag on the couch. A few papers had slipped out—a printed list, some pattern sheets, and a folded flyer.
He glanced at it out of habit.
Knitting Patterns & Coffee Club
Wednesdays at 6PM
Hosted by Jill and Bea
He stared at the names for a long moment. Then put the flyer back where it was.
Later that day, Peter stood at the kitchen counter, setting up a new phone charger. The old one had frayed near the plug, wires curling out like tiny antennae.
He plugged the new one in, placed his phone on top of it, and turned away.
When he picked the phone up again, there was nothing underneath.
No paper.
No receipt.
Just the glass of the counter and a small dust ring where the base had been.
That night, he dreamed he was standing in line.
He didn’t know what store. He didn’t know what for.
The floor was polished linoleum, too bright, too clean. Fluorescents buzzed overhead like insects caught behind plastic.
Ahead of him: strangers. Silent. Still. Each one holding something different—a bottle, a loaf of bread, a plastic comb, a greeting card.
Every few seconds, the line shuffled forward. No one looked around. No one spoke.
Peter looked down at his own hands and saw that he was holding a folded receipt. Just one.
He didn’t open it.
When he reached the front of the line, there was no counter. No cashier. Just a metal tray, like something from a cafeteria, and a small printed sign:
Leave it here.
It's over.
So he placed the receipt down and walked forward.
There was no sound. No door. No explanation.
Just a soft, endless white light ahead, and the faint smell of something warm and clean—like dryer sheets or old sunlit paper.
Peter never received another receipt after that.
Not under his phone.
Not in his pockets.
Not anywhere.
And eventually, he stopped waiting for them.