The Receipt in the Glovebox
The morning had the kind of cold that didn’t shout—it just stayed. Winter light laid itself thin across the street outside The Shepherds Cafe, and the windows held a soft fog where the warmth inside met the day’s edge.
The morning had the kind of cold that didn’t shout—it just stayed. Winter light laid itself thin across the street outside The Shepherds Cafe, and the windows held a soft fog where the warmth inside met the day’s edge.