A Sourdough Secret in the City's Veins

The city breathes in gray tones, but my morning is painted in the golden hue of sun hitting asphalt. I run not to arrive, but to feel the pulse beneath my soles—a rhythmic cadence against the stone that whispers of places I have yet to go and memories I am trying to keep.
In my mouth, the toast is warm, a crumbly relic of home and routine. It tastes like toasted secrets and buttered silence. They say modern life is fast, a blurring tape of faces and deadlines played at double speed, but here, in this narrow lane between shadows and light, I am suspended.
I saw you standing there, a ghost in the doorway of my periphery. Did you notice how the wind caught my braids? Or how my heart thrummed against my ribs like a bird seeking its cage? Your eyes held the weight of an unread letter, one that speaks of longing without saying a word.
Let this moment be our shared secret. A stolen bite of warmth in a cold, steel world. When I reach my destination, I will forget the path—but for now, I am the only thing moving in a frozen frame of time.

Editor: The Courier of Time