It started with the first tug of dawn, a soft violet creeping over the horizon. Leah watched from her window, clutching a chipped mug of coffee. The morning felt endless, suspended in the salty air. She thought about writing her mother a letter, something tangible amid her digital detritus. But the words danced just out of reach, dizzying like dreams she used to voice at twilight.
At the corner cafe, Mark saw a woman order three donuts and sit at the bar with ink-stained fingers. A novel sprawled open on her lap, pages worn thin like feathers. He watched her, fascinated by the unraveling of lives he could only guess at. She caught his eye, a mere glance, and a half-smile more sincere than words broke between them. He carried that look like a secret past the crowd, feeling lighter than he could explain.
Years after they stopped speaking, Andrew found a forgotten note slipped between the pages of an old anthology. It was simply written, a note about the way spring brought the lilacs to bloom, penned by hands once so familiar. He couldn't decide if it felt more like opening a wound or a window, catching a draft of the scent that once permeated his summers. It haunted him for days, the echo of a life that might have been too rich to hold.