The Blue Mug Thursdays
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I stopped believing in second chances the day my mom died. For two years after, I moved through
life like I was underwater, everything muffled and distant. Then I started going
to this tiny bookstore on Maple Street every Thursday morning, not because I loved books particularly,
but because it was quiet and no one asked me how I was doing. The owner,
Marcus, had this habit of humming while he shelved books. Always the same
melody, something I never could place. He never pushed conversation,
just nodded when I came in, made sure the corner chair by the window was empty.
That chair became mine without either of us saying so. One Thursday, six months in,
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