Unready, Still Here
- Jeremy Fisher
- Apr 21
- 22 min read
Updated: Aug 19
The air smells like frozen exhaust and burning bread. I step out of the corner grocery store, a loaf of dark rye under my arm, and pull my jacket tighter against the cold. The streetlights flicker yellow onto the snow-slick pavement, casting long shadows behind the few people still outside. A trolleybus groans past, half-empty, its windows fogged over. Everything looks the same. Sounds the same. But lately there’s been a strange weight in the air, like the breath you take before someone slams a door ...
