By chance

Philippe sighed. It had been six years, four months, one week and two days since he’d eaten baklava. But there, glistening on the other side of the glass in this tiny bakery sat a fresh tray of honeyed glory. He could still feel the overpowering sweetness drenching his tongue, the subtly crisp crunch of pistachio and filo filling his mouth; the scent of warm air, laughter, and home.

He was now in a very different place. The streets outside were busy, and the afternoon stretched on like a mirage; but this wasn’t home. He bought a square and bit down.