The scent of roasting coffee beans and maple syrup curled through the air like a quiet promise—warm, steady, and alive. It wrapped around me, soothing the sharp, lingering ghosts of smoke that still clung to my memory. Some nights, I could still hear the crackle of flames from Astoria, still see the Silver Star collapsing into embers.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the world—at least our small corner of it—was learning how to breathe again.
It had been exactly three weeks since the fire.
Three weeks since everything burned.
Three weeks since we survived.
And somehow… we had rebuilt.
Not in Queens.
Not in the shadow of what we lost.
But here.
DUMBO.
