The chipped Formica felt cool under Leo’s palms. He kneaded, pushed, folded—each motion a futile attempt to work out the knot in his chest. Rye dough. It smelled like…everything. Like his grandmother’s kitchen, like Sundays, like a life he couldn’t…
The chipped ceramic of the mug warmed Leo’s hands, did little for the cold that settled deep in his bones. Rain lashed the window of the diner, mirroring the gray wash over everything he drew. He sketched, a gaunt figure…
The ledge was their world. A narrow strip of obsidian against the endless white of the wall, it was all they had ever known. Seven glass ducks, each a different hue – a glacial white, a bruised lavender, a sun-faded…