The Unfinished Market Society

The train ticket was folded into four neat squares and tucked inside the dead woman’s hymn book, which would have been odd enough if the dead woman had ever been known to sing. Grace Gallagher noticed it before the undertaker did. She noticed because Grace had spent forty-two years noticing the things other people called background: the second cup left untouched, the market-stall receipt dated a day too early, the small tremor in a voice when a lie was dressed up as neighbourliness.