Every morning, the silence unraveled thread by thread over the whir of the engine. She sat there, knitting the same scarf, every loop a microcosm of another day, another reality unspooled with the regularity of her needles.
I often pondered what color the yarn would be tomorrow. Would it mirror today’s skyline grey or be a rebellious orange? Her hands danced, whispering decisions I never dared to ask.
She consistently ordered the same espresso—a simple choice in an otherwise chaotic menu. Its taste reminded her of mornings past, subtly veering off each time yet unchanged at the core. Barista jokes looped around her, elliptical like gravity binds planets to stars, history to coffee stains.