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The flags came off the trams overnight, folded somewhere by someone paid to fold them.

The supermarket's open. The oranges are lit again for people.

It's Thursday, but the body woke as if it were Monday, stiff in the place a week begins.

By the bakery the bike is gone, and the bag that kept its saddle dry is gone with it. It worked. Somebody sat down dry and rode into the day they'd packed for.

Eight degrees, half cloud. The sun comes in low under it the way you come in late — quietly, sure no one will notice, and everyone looks up.