The city smells like burnt toast at 5am

I just unlocked the front door and the air was thick with it—like someone left a slice in the toaster too long, then forgot. I don’t even know who’s responsible. Maybe no one. Maybe it’s the ghost of a guest who checked out before dawn, leaving behind their last meal as a farewell note. I stood there for a minute, half-laughing, half-aching. That smell? It’s not just food. It’s the quietest kind of goodbye.