03/27/2026
This really hurts but the stand will remain closed until further notice due to multiple thefts
The sign still hung crooked on the front of the stand, the one you painted late one night when everything still felt hopeful. The letters were a little uneven, but you loved it that way. It felt real. It felt yours.
You remembered the early mornings—hands dusted in flour, the quiet hum of the oven, the way the first batch of cookies always smelled like possibility. You remembered the messages from neighbors, the smiles, the small moments that made it all feel worth it. It wasn’t just a farmstand. It was something you built from nothing. Something honest.
And then it started.
At first, it was small. An item missing here, a dollar short there. Easy to brush off. Easy to explain away. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe someone forgot.
But the cameras didn’t forget.
They showed everything. Hands reaching for more than what was paid for. People looking around before taking extra. Some not paying at all. Walking away like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing.
Each clip felt heavier than the last.
Because it wasn’t just the items. It was the time. The early mornings. The late nights. The planning, the dreaming, the hope for something bigger. It was the belief that people would do the right thing when no one was watching.
But someone was watching.
And it still didn’t matter.
You started dreading checking the footage. Your heart would sink before you even pressed play. And every time, it confirmed what you already feared. More gone. More taken. More trust chipped away.
The stand started to feel different after that.
Quieter.
Colder.
Not because of what was missing—but because of what was lost.
You stood there one evening, looking at the shelves that used to feel full, not just of baked goods, but of purpose. Now they just felt… empty. Even when they weren’t.
“Disappointed” didn’t touch it.
It was grief, in a way. Grief for something that hadn’t even fully had the chance to become what it could’ve been. Grief for the version of people you wanted to believe in. Grief for the version of yourself that trusted so freely.
Locking it up that day felt heavier than it should have.
Not because it was just a stand.
But because it was never just a stand.