The morning sun had a golden bite to it — sharp but warm, cutting through the dusty glass of Khan General Store. Inside, Ashburn adjusted the placement of rice sacks near the front, making sure each one faced outward neatly. The new printed signboard above the counter glimmered faintly in the sunlight — "Quality you can trust — Khan General Store."
The air carried the faint mix of detergent, cardamom, and ghee. It smelled like work — real work.
Sami sat near the cash counter, in his school uniform, counting change. "Bhai, we're almost out of flour packets again."
Ashburn nodded, half-smiling. "I ordered fifty extra this week, still gone before Friday. Good sign."
Business had changed. People were walking in every few minutes — families, laborers, even small shopkeepers from nearby streets who once ignored his store. The new products — premium basmati rice, branded oil, instant noodles, and freshly packed lentils — had brought in new faces.
An old woman entered with a list in trembling hands.
"Beta, give me the same detergent as last time. That one smelled like flowers," she said with a grin.
Ashburn fetched it from the shelf. "You mean Blue Sparkle? Here. And tell me if you liked the new soap samples I added."
She laughed. "You've started thinking like those big-city marts."
He chuckled. "Not yet, Amma. Just trying to make it easier for everyone."
Behind her, two men stood arguing about the price of sugar. One of them, a mechanic from the nearby workshop, turned to Ashburn.
"Yaar, your sugar's two rupees more than Naeem Traders' today."
Ashburn didn't flinch. "His is mixed with dust, mine isn't. You decide."
The man laughed, looking at the clean white grains in the open sack. "Fine, fine. Give me four kilos."
By noon, the store buzzed with small talk and footsteps. The new delivery boy — a polite teenager named Imtiaz — came running with a notepad. "Sir, the van's here. Should I go drop these orders in Ashgate Street first?"
"Yes," Ashburn replied. "And make sure you ask every customer if they received the right quantity. Trust comes from small things."
The rented delivery car was old but reliable. Its sides carried a simple painted logo: Khan Store Delivery Service. A quiet step into the next stage — one Ashburn had dreamed of since the first evaluation.
He wiped his forehead and leaned against the counter. His eyes drifted toward the system note on his phone — hidden in a private folder.
> [Evaluation Progress: 40%]
[Funds Utilized: ₹4,00,000 / ₹7,00,000]
[System Remark: "Growth measured in sweat is never wasted."]
He smiled faintly. One month gone already. Four lakh spent wisely — restocked essentials, rented the van, hired two helpers, updated signboard, added new lighting. He could see the difference not just in numbers, but in people's faces.
A group of college students entered, laughing, picking snacks and cold drinks. One of them called out, "Bhai, got any new chips brand?"
"Try these," Ashburn said, sliding a packet forward. "Imported taste, local price."
The boy grinned. "You'll make us broke."
"That's the plan," Ashburn joked back, and everyone laughed.
After they left, Sami packed a few boxes quietly. "You know, Bhai, Abbu would be proud. He always said this shop just needed someone to believe in it."
Ashburn didn't respond for a moment. His gaze softened. The old man's tired face flashed in his mind — sitting by the counter late at night, counting every rupee twice, whispering "Bas guzara ho jaye."
He took a slow breath. "I just don't want to waste what he built."
Sami smiled, zipping up his school bag. "You're not wasting it. You're upgrading it."
By late afternoon, when the sun started fading behind Ashrock's narrow alleys, Ashburn sat at the back, reviewing inventory lists. The delivery van had finished ten trips that week — each earning small profit margins, but combined, they added up. The system's internal tracker had even highlighted a slight uptick in customer satisfaction.
He ran his hand over the wooden counter — smoother now, freshly polished. "Every scratch here has a story," he murmured.
Outside, the shop lights glowed softly as evening came. A few regulars stopped by just to chat. One of them, a barber, leaned in.
"You've done something right, Malik. People trust your prices more now. Even Naeem's workers buy from you quietly."
Ashburn only smiled. "Let them. I just hope they get good goods for their homes too."
The barber nodded. "You're not like the others. Maybe that's why people come."
When the last customer left, he locked the cash drawer, stretched his tired arms, and glanced at the board showing today's earnings. Higher than any day last month. His body felt heavy, but his chest carried a quiet warmth.
The shop looked peaceful — every shelf aligned, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the silence.
He looked at the faint reflection of himself in the glass. "One month down," he whispered. "And still so far to go."
He flipped the switch, letting the lights dim one by one. Sami had already gone home. Outside, the air was cool, carrying the smell of dust and night food stalls.
Ashburn took out his phone to check messages — a habit before heading home. He scrolled lazily through supplier updates, delivery confirmations… then froze.
A new message blinked on his screen. No contact name. Just a number he didn't recognize.
> "You're growing too fast, Malik. Let's see how long you last."
The street suddenly felt quieter.
His thumb hovered over the screen as a small chill crawled up his back. He looked around — only the faint flicker of a streetlight, the hum of a passing rickshaw, nothing else.
He stared at the message again. No emoji. No signature. Just those words — calm, almost polite.
The night wind brushed against his face.
And just like that… peace was gone again.