Someone unpacks a box, finds a winter coat that smells like storage, and searches dry cleaner near me. Three listings come up. Yours might be one of them, but the one they tap has photos of the counter, hours that look current, and a post from this week. Yours has a photo from the year you bought the place.
You have been on that corner for eighteen years. That is exactly what makes it sting. The chain drop-off two lights down opened in a strip mall with a plastic counter and a bored teenager, and it is beating you on the only screen that decides where new people go.
So your book slowly becomes older customers. The ones who found you when the neighbourhood was different. They move, they retire, they stop wearing suits to work, and nothing replaces them, because the people replacing them never saw your name.
One day you notice Tuesdays used to be busy.