161. Walking Through Ghosts

Nova

Morning in New York doesn’t arrive gently. It announces itself with sound: sirens folding into traffic, steam sighing out of sidewalks and the low murmur of a city that never asks if you’re ready. I wake to it all, tangled in white hotel sheets that smell like detergent and unfamiliar air, my body heavy with jet lag and something deeper.

For a moment, I forget where I am, then memory snaps into place like a door slamming shut.

New York.

His city. I cake for ...