Chapter 4: The café on the corner of Rue Nouveau heard the whisperings long before Sylvia did. Her routine coffee, a simple blend, an absent stare at the world illuminating through the wide glass windows. Forgotten were the pages once scattered about, their tales half-told and left on amber-tinged mornings. She scribbled on worn receipts, snippets from conversations not her own.
Chapter 14: It was the first snowfall that November brought on a Tuesday when Helen walked past the ancient library. Each flake blanketed the world anew; history substituted for a paused breath. Glimpses of strangers formed in her mind like old teaming melodies unheard, real as the cold metal bench touching her palm; chapters long past, longing to be retitled.