fantasy · 2026.10.24
The dough was warm under my palms, springy, and smelled faintly of anise and the wooden drawer where my mother kept her recipes. I was shaping rolls at the back counter of the bakery on Ferrier Street, the one with the crooked blue awning, and the ovens were breathing their dry heat against my neck. Through the window I could see the tram go by without any wires above it.