“Sit,” Lena said, pouring fresh coffee into a chipped mug. “You look like you’ve been running.”
She pulled a crumpled napkin from her pocket—the same one she’d scribbled the original lyrics on, a decade ago. And for the first time that night, she smiled.
Mia blinked. “I was seventeen. It was a stupid poem.” mia malkova oh mia
Lena leaned on the counter. “So what now, Mia?”
“Oh Mia,” she hummed softly, changing the tune. “Oh Mia, the road is a circle, not a chain.” “Sit,” Lena said, pouring fresh coffee into a
Mia Malkova stepped in.
Mia looked out at the storm, then back at her own reflection in the dark window—a ghost of the girl who’d left, and the woman who’d returned. Mia blinked
Mia wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “No. It feels like I never left. That’s the worst part.”