The bell above the door of Salvatore’s Repair gave a soft jingle as Anna stepped in, holding a pair of boots whose cracked leather looked as weary as she felt. Inside, the air was warm and fragrant with something earthy—polish, beeswax, and time. Wooden lasts, spools of thread, and tiny hammers lay neatly on the counter, like tools of a quiet alchemy. Behind it, an elderly man with a silver mustache looked up from stitching a heel. “Those boots,” he said, not asking but recognizing. “They hav...
