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 mug warmed Leo’s hands, the steam fogging his glasses. He didn’t bother wiping them. Budapest blurred nicely anyway. Across the cramped table, a woman traced the rim of her own cup, her knuckles white. Her gaze held…
Internal Monologue of a Potential New Cyclist Chapter 2: The Dust and the Dream The seed of an idea, planted by Sarah’s cheerful persistence, refused to be entirely dismissed. Throughout the day, it nudged at the edges of Eleanor’s consciousness,…