The earth shimmered beneath their feet like a self-help book printed on holographic cardstock.
Clarissa was mid-reflection (and also mid-mimosa), when the ground let out a polite ahem. A fissure opened—not violently, but more like a "Hey, when you're done processing, would you mind descending into your next lesson?" kind of way.
Brunchaia floated slightly off the ground, her boots made entirely of old journal entries and post-it affirmations. She gestured grandly.
"Behold: The Crêperie of Consequence."
Gasps fluttered like butterfly trauma responses.
"I thought we were done," Shen moaned.
"We're never done," Brunchaia said softly, patting his existential dread like a fussy cat. "Growth is a buffet. Not a fixed menu."
The Crêperie of Consequence rose from the brunchmist. Glimmering, tiered, and rotating at precisely the speed of a breakthrough you're not quite ready for.
At its core stood a Crêpe so thin, it was nearly theoretical.
