Somewhere between Norwich and Thenford, a diner clings to shadowy edges of falling rain. A woman with orange-brown curls rotates her coffee cup clockwise—an act echoing the long-lost uncle's superstitions. Steam clouds drift over worn paperbacks stacked like skyscrapers. Phone rings but never answers.

The scent of lilacs, felt not once but repeatedly, inhales from faded family kitchens. Grandma Martha’s hands cradle porcelain angels while the sun streaks through fog-drenched trees. An echo resounds, perhaps a song, revolving around summer picnics punctuated by distant laughter.

Decorated bookmarks peek from wedged pages in dusty basements, a record of desires abandoned mid-journey. Each symbol, each verse etched converts yet another chapter into a pilgrimage of excuses, their stories gravel-lined roads echoing silently down their versions of Holy Land.