Clara’s fingers pressed into the dough, kneading until her palms burned. The bakery’s ovens hummed, filling the air with the scent of cinnamon and toasted almonds. She had always found comfort in the rhythm of it—the slap of flour, the…
The air in the bakery smelled like cinnamon and regret. Mira kneaded dough beneath her palms, the flour dusting her wrists as she pressed it into shape. Outside, the sun dipped low over the hills, casting long shadows across the…
## The Echo Weaver The hum vibrated through Elias’s teeth, a low thrum he felt more than heard. He sat in Unit L’, the padded chair molded to his form, staring at the grey wall. Grey always. It was the…
## Dough & Data The chipped Formica countertop stuck to Detective Leo Reynolds’s elbow. Rain lashed against the window of Mabel’s Diner, mirroring the storm inside him. Website ranking. That was his current hell. Not catching actual criminals, but boosting…
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…