The bell above the door tinkled a half-hearted hello as Eliza entered the shop. It had been one of those mornings; the kind that clung to your coat like your childhood home, stubborn and full of echoes.
The rich scent of fried dough mingled with the sweetness of glaze, weaving its way through the unpainted walls. Eldridge was at the counter, mechanical in his rhythm, rolling out dough with a slightly crooked smile, lost in his own world.
Kneading and pressing like the reverberations from memory. Eliza approached, unsure if it was the doughnuts she craved or the warmth of a good story. Partially abandoning the ritual, Eldridge tossed her a small doughnut decorated with bright sprinkles.
"Fresh offerings," he said, grinning sheepishly. "How's the rhythm of life treating you?"
She cracked a small smile, the kind that the taste of sugar coaxed from the quiet of her mind. "Perfectly imperfect, like a sweet doughnut," she replied, doubt lingering like shadows cast by midmorning sun.
And in that empty room, the reverberations of an unasked story lingered, echoing the conversations she'd wished were different, the ones possibly hidden under flour and oil.