Nobody came to say goodbye when I left Calm Breeze. The world fell so silent I could hear nothing but my own breathing.

The health inspector slapped bright yellow closure notices on the door—garish wounds against the wood. Glancing at the crowd across the street filming on their phones like vultures at a car crash, he asked with unexpected kindness where I'd go next.


I was flat broke.

My faded canvas bag held just a few changes of clothes and my old hand-cranked coffee grinder.

It felt heavy—the weight of my entire world.


My golden curls clung to my cheeks in the humid air. I wore faded jeans and a simple white tee—my last armor against the world.

I squinted up at the gray sky, fractured by skyscrapers, and forced a smile. "I'll figure something out. I've lost the shop, but I still have my skills."


The inspector hesitated, his mouth working as if trying to form words of encouragement.

"Save your pity. I'm fine." I rejected his sympathy—the last shred of my dignity demanded it.

I hoisted my bag and walked away, heading nowhere in particular.

I'd seen this coming, so before signing those papers, I'd memorized the map of my escape route.

From here to the restaurant district where I might find work as a server: one hour and forty minutes on foot.

Not so bad, I told myself. Just a casual urban hike.

The city hadn't changed much in six months. The Second Avenue subway line—under construction when I'd opened my shop—still stood like an exposed skeleton waiting for flesh. It wasn't running yet, and neither was my life.

Waiting for the light to change, my eyes drifted to a trendy new bubble tea shop across the street.

Behind the glass, a girl with rainbow braids caught me looking. After a moment's pause, she flashed me a brilliant smile and pumped her fist in a "hang in there" gesture across the busy street.

Something caught in my throat.

I smiled back with a small nod, grateful for this tiny kindness from a stranger.

When the light changed, I adjusted my bag strap to better balance the weight of the grinder, then stepped into the indifferent river of humanity.

I reached my rundown Bushwick apartment building just before darkness swallowed the city.

The hallway reeked of mildew and neglect, cluttered with abandoned junk.

I fumbled for my keys in the darkness, their soft metallic jingle the only sound as I let myself in.

The tiny studio contained nothing but a bare mattress and a cheap IKEA table with peeling veneer—more cell than home.

I set down the grinder and gently wiped dust from its brass casing with my sleeve, a ghost of a smile crossing my lips.

"Well, old friend," I whispered, "welcome home."