In the quiet hours before dawn, the old radio clicks and sputters, whispering the same tales, echoing familiar laughter, as if time itself forgot to turn the page. "We'll always have Monday mornings," she said, half a smile lingering, eyes reflecting a past undrawn yet vivid, as if yesterday never left.
Jean's Bakery, corner of Maple and High, always opens at six, sourdough in the air, warm tales on the lips of strangers. Sometimes, the same customers sit at table three: one reading the same book, another staring out as though waiting... for what? Ah, but the croissants—golden, crisp, mirrors to moments forgotten.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" A question that spirals into yesterday's today; connection made through the simple act of sharing morning light. Shadows dance on walls, outlining stories written, erased, and rewritten again, yet progression hangs suspended.