She paused, fingers poised above the keyboard. Outside, the sun spilled golden light onto the pavement, chasing shadows of the trees that swayed gently in the breeze. Little reminders of a routine so etched into her memory, it felt pre-scripted.
"I know this place," she thought, gazing into the wood-grain of the table, each line a story of its own. Deja vu, an old friend, wrapped its gentle arms around her shoulders.
The seat beside her creaked as someone settled in, familiar yet unknown. Their presence hung in the air, tangible as smoke, wrapping her in a memory that seemed just out of reach.
Perhaps next time, she promised herself. Perhaps on Wednesday, beneath the same sun, in the same whispers, she would understand why everything felt so right, so destined.
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