The city moved on, indifferent to the knots inside her chest.
People bustled in and out of buildings, umbrellas bloomed like silent fireworks in the distance, taxis honked, streetlights blinked awake. Deadlines were met, meetings scheduled, lunch breaks taken. The rhythm of daily life beat on steadily, mercilessly, like a drum she no longer danced to.
Caroline sat in her usual corner of the office pantry—an alcove tucked just far enough from the main space to offer illusionary privacy. Her hands curled around a mug of now-lukewarm tea, the kind she made out of habit rather than want. The sharp aroma of ginger and honey clung to the steam, untouched.
Around her, life happened in soft echoes: the low hum of the central air conditioning, the indistinct rise and fall of coworkers' conversations, the distant clatter of plates and spoons. It all bled together into a blur, like a soundtrack she no longer registered.
